


The Reluctant Guardian

by smartgirlsaremean



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Anti Hook, Nothing explicit, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, trope-tastic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 11:58:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 33,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9070639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smartgirlsaremean/pseuds/smartgirlsaremean
Summary: Roderick Gold is about to complete his revenge on the Jones family by inheriting the family fortune and estate, but to his surprise there is one late acquisition: Jones was guardian to a young woman, and that guardianship now falls to Gold. Determined at first to marry her and make absolutely sure all of the Jones assets are under his control, he soon discovers that there is much more to Bella French than meets the eye.Belle French values nothing so much as her independence, and would far rather die an old maid than lose even a moment of freedom. Her new guardian is intriguing, though, and the more she learns about his past the more questions she has. His reputation doesn't quite match her own observations, and while she would love to uncover the mystery that is Roderick Gold, she must be very cautious lest she reveal her own secrets and ruin her own plans.AU Rumbelle with possible Swanfire laterNominated for Best Historical AU in the 2017 TEAs





	1. Chapter 1

Roderick Gold had waited half his life for this moment to come. Twenty years of meticulous planning and cautious scheming had placed him in this room, beside this bed, waiting for William Jones to die. The old fool did not, could not know with what eagerness Gold had anticipated this moment; at last Jones’s wrongs against him would be avenged and Gold released from decades of anger and hatred.

“Gold,” Jones whispered, stretching one hand out blindly.

“I am here, old friend,” Gold answered, taking the skeletal hand gingerly in his own.

“With Cillian gone, you have become as...another son...to me. You will have everything.”

“You will weaken yourself, sir,” Gold murmured, pressing his hand. “You must rest.”

“All of it...yours...but you must promise…” Gold reined in his temper as Jones broke off in a fit of coughing. Must he, indeed? The physician hurried back into the room, checking the old man’s pulse and shaking his head gravely. “You must promise,” Jones continued even more weakly, “to discharge all my duties faithfully. Every one...all of them, Roddy…”

Gold ignored the slight squeeze of his heart at the old nickname. Fondness had no place in his plans, and the Jones family had lost any claim to his sympathies many years ago.

“ _ Promise _ me, Roddy!” Jones gasped.

“I promise, Liam,” Gold said reluctantly. “I promise.”

* * *

William Jones’s will was read, and Roderick Gold was now - finally - an extraordinarily wealthy man. The town house in London he resolved to sell as soon as possible, but Blackhall, Jones’s ancestral estate in Yorkshire, he looked eagerly forward to owning. Smith read through the various annuities and sums left to old servants and retainers while Gold let his mind wander. What to do with Blackhall, then? Tear it down and erect a new hall? Pollute the ancient grounds with modern monstrosities? Or would the greatest revenge be to live there happily and prosperously, aware it would have killed Cillian to see Gold in the position that should have been his?

“As for the young lady...” Smith intoned.

“Young lady?” Gold snapped. “What young lady?”

“The young lady whose guardianship you have assumed,” Smith answered quite placidly. “Miss Bella French.”

Gold hated to be surprised or to show himself at any kind of disadvantage, but he couldn’t help gaping in disbelief. “I knew William Jones for twenty years,” he growled, “and he never had a ward.”

“The guardianship is of a very recent date. Sir Morris French died only a week ago, leaving the care of his daughter to Mr. Jones, who was his brother-in-law. Lady French and Mrs. Jones were sisters.”

“I’ve never even heard of the girl.”

Smith had nothing to say in reply. Well, of course he did not. What could he possibly say?

“Why isn’t the girl in school?”

“Miss French is twenty years of age.”

“Twenty! God’s teeth, why isn’t she married yet?”

Smith, once more, said nothing.

Gold sighed. “I suppose she will come into her inheritance when she comes of age?”

“Yes, sir. Miss French will have a fortune of twenty thousand pounds from her father, as well as a further ten thousand from her grandfather, who passed last year.”

If he were still an uncouth Scottish landlord, Gold would have whistled. As it was, he could not completely keep his expression neutral. How on earth had he been fortunate enough to end up with an orphaned heiress in his care? And a cousin of Cillian Jones, no less? Fate was smiling on him in earnest.

“Where is she now?”

“After her father’s death she continued to live in Sir Morris’s townhouse, though the heir of the estate will no doubt take possession soon.”

“Heir?”

“A distant cousin, I believe.”

Gold’s hands clenched around the handle of his cane and he smiled disinterestedly. “Well, I suppose I should pay her a visit.”

Smith bowed and collected his papers and Gold shuffled together his own. What a shackle to take on! A young woman with such a sizeable fortune unmarried at the advanced age of twenty could only be exceedingly plain, terribly dull, or both. She might even be one of those formidable females who decried matrimony altogether, like the maiden aunts who had raised him. Either way, cohabitating with her was an unappealing prospect. He would have to put off the sale of the Jones townhouse for a little while longer, it appeared, at least until he determined whether her thirty thousand pounds were worth tying himself to her for life.

Well, of course he was considering marrying her. It would be singularly satisfying to complete his revenge in this way - every single asset ever connected with Jones or his family completely under Gold’s control. It would all depend on the lady herself, of course; Gold was not above persuasion, coercion, or blackmail, but he would never force her. To London then, to discover what sort of creature he was about to court.

His carriage took him to the inn in the village, where his friend Jefferson Bucket awaited him. When Gold entered the private parlor he’d reserved, Jefferson hailed him with great good cheer.

“And here’s the Jones heir now!” Jefferson raised his glass. “Victory at last, Rod! How does it feel?”

“Like a millstone around my neck,” Gold sighed, pouring his own two fingers of scotch. “Things are more complicated than I expected.”

“Oh? A love-child to support, then?”

“Not quite. A young lady. A ward.” Gold took a slow sip before divulging the final tidbit. “Cillian Jones’s cousin.”

“Rich as Cleopatra, too, I have no doubt.”

“Oh, aye.”

“Well, damn! I hope you’ll consider me when she reaches marriageable age.”

“She’s twenty.”

“Ah.” Jefferson pulled a face. “Must be a harridan. Or a gargoyle.”

“Or both.”

“All yours.”

“My thanks,” Gold grumbled.

“I’m quite rich enough without needing to marry a harpy, thank you very much.”

“Care for a journey to London?”

Jefferson laughed. “No, no, you are quite welcome to waltz into this disaster on your own. Grace is expecting me home for a tea party and I absolutely will not disappoint her.”

Gold smiled. “How is young Miss Bucket?”

“Don’t call her that! It makes her sound as if she’s grown up.”

“Isn’t she turning twelve soon?”

“Exactly. I have a few more years until I have to start worrying about suitors and dances and all that infernal nonsense, but for now she’s a little girl who loves to have tea parties with her papa.”

“Enjoy those years,” Gold softly, swirling his drink. “They fade all too quickly.”

“How is Master Baeden?”

“Well enough, I suppose. He and Emma are expecting a wee bairn in a few months.”

“You? A doting grandfather?” Jefferson laughed maniacally. “That I’d pay to see!”

“Bae would have to allow me to spend more than a few hours in his house, first.” Gold’s voice was a little sharper than he’d intended. Jefferson dropped the subject and stood.

“Well, I’m off. Good luck with the harpy!”

“Enjoy your tea.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gold meets his new charge, and she's most definitely not what he was expecting.

Sir Morris’s townhouse looked exactly like every other house on Harley Street, and Gold hated London townhouses. He ascended the stairs to this one with great reluctance, uncertain of what he was to find. He had mined his acquaintances for information about Miss Bella French, but had heard little to nothing, as her father had been too poorly to squire her about town and she had no living female relatives. Before the baronet’s illness, they had lived mostly abroad, and when they were in town they had kept no company. Since her father’s death Miss French had been most properly absent from the social scene.

He was walking in blind, and he hated the feeling.

Handing his card to the butler, Gold hoped his solicitor’s letter had reached her already. It would make everything much easier, he imagined, if he did not have to explain his presence in her house and his role in her life. He hated to cool his heels in the hall and feel useless, but even he was not such a monster as to barrel into a grieving woman’s life and turn it even more upside down.

At long last, the butler reappeared, and Gold was led down the corridor to what appeared to be the morning room. Two women occupied the room, one in a chair knitting calmly - her gray hair and fine wrinkles ruled her out as Miss French - and one standing by the window. Miss French turned as the butler announced Gold’s name, and Gold’s hand tightened on the handle of his cane.

Beautiful did not begin to describe this woman. Gold wasn’t even sure words existed that could describe her. From her ice-blue eyes to her porcelain skin to her richly colored dark hair to her trim figure impeccably dressed in unrelieved black, she was loveliness personified. Her remarkable eyes widened noticeably when they met his, and she seemed to freeze where she stood, her lips slightly parted as if she’d been arrested in the middle of an attempt to speak. He wasn’t sure how long they stood in silence before the pain in his ankle made its insistent presence known; a slight shifting of his weight seemed to snap her back into awareness.

“Mr. Gold,” she said, dipping him a slight curtsy.

“Miss French.” He was astounded his voice still worked correctly. She indicated a chair and he sank into it gratefully, his eyes slipping to the companion, who had continued knitting without pause.

“My companion, Miss Hammond,” Miss French explained. At the sound of her name, Miss Hammond raised her eyes to Gold’s, nodded once, and then returned to her yarn.

Well, at least they all knew each other’s names. That was useful.

They stared at each other again for a moment and Gold found himself in danger of drowning in Miss French’s eyes. Hastily he looked away and reminded himself of why he was here with Cillian Jones’s wealthy orphaned cousin, who was about to be homeless and helpless and completely at his mercy - his revenge almost complete - only this one slight delicious blow left to be delivered before he could retire from the field victorious. Her beauty should not sway him from his purpose; it should only add a little sweetness to the pot, as he would not have wanted a homely wife.

“It must have been strange to learn you had a ward, I imagine,” Miss French observed, her eyes never wavering from his face.

“It was indeed. An inconvenience I was not expecting.”

Miss French’s eyebrows rose and her expression grew haughty. “I don’t intend to be an inconvenience to you or to anyone.”

“Nevertheless you will be one. You will have to move out of this house and into Jones’s - that is to say,  _ my _ \- townhouse. You will need a season after your period of mourning is over - not a minute longer than six months, mind you - and you will need a husband.”

“Will I, indeed,  _ need _ a husband?” she asked, her eyes sparking.

“Don’t you want one?”

“That is an entirely different matter, and one I will decide personally.  _ You _ need not concern yourself with it.” He bit back a smile. “As for moving into your townhouse, there is no need. I will stay here.”

“You can’t, dearie,” Gold grinned, leaning forward in his seat a little. “The new heir will be wanting it.”

“ _ I _ am my father’s heir.”

“Actually, no, you’re not. Your fortune is yours, or will be when you come of age, but the properties were bequeathed to some very distant cousin of yours. The baronetcy, the estate, the cottage, and this townhouse all go to Mr. Gregory Garnet - pardon me,  _ Sir _ Gregory now.”

Miss French’s face was a picture of despair. “Greg has inherited everything? Oh, good lord…”

“I take it you do know him?”

“Unfortunately,” she muttered, rising and pacing the room.

His lips twitched. “Not fond of him?”

“He’s a lummox,” she spat. “A well-intentioned, honorable lummox, but a lummox nonetheless. Papa  _ promised  _ me he would change that clause in his will. He said the properties would go to  _ me _ . Greg will run them into the ground in two years.” The sound of the doorbell both interrupted and distracted her, and she turned to take the card presented to her. “Oh, hell, it’s him,” she sighed, and Gold fought down a delighted smile.

“Bella, my dear,” boomed a resonating baritone voice, and a young man entered who was Miss French’s exact match in beauty, all thick dark hair and chiseled jaw and muscled build. He advanced on the young lady with his hands outstretched. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner. I was so sorry to hear of your father.”

“Thank you, Greg,” she said with a wan smile.

“Ah, you have company?” the lummox asked, eyeing Gold with curiosity.

“This is Mr. Gold, my uncle’s heir and my new guardian.”

“‘Tis a precious trust you have received, sir,” Sir Gregory intoned, holding his hand out solemnly. “But I am sure Mr. Jones chose well.”

“No doubt he agreed with you,” Gold answered, keeping his hands on his cane. “You’ll forgive me for not rising. Bum leg.”

“It’s providential we should be here at the same time, my good man,” Garnet said in a confiding sort of tone, taking a seat near Gold when Miss French had resumed her own. “I’ve a proposition for you.”

Gold raised an eyebrow.

“Well, it’s only that I would like to take your guardianship off your hands, so to speak,” Garnet smiled. “I’d like to ask you for Bella’s hand in marriage.”

“I beg your pardon!” Miss French exclaimed, leaping to her feet.

“It only makes sense,” Garnet continued, still speaking directly to Gold. “Our families always looked favorably on a match between us. We even used to play at housekeeping once upon a time.”

“We were seven and ten, Gregory,” Miss French protested.

“Out of the question, I’m afraid, Sir Gregory,” Gold said coldly. “All other considerations aside, Miss French will be in mourning for the customary period, and I really cannot entertain any pretentions to her hand until that period is over. Besides which,” he leaned back and templed his fingers, “you would have to gain the lady’s consent - yet another pursuit that will have to wait until the end of her mourning period.”

“Well, I’m a patient man,” Garnet said confidently. “I’m happy to wait, and as Bella will of course be staying here, we will have the opportunity to get to know each other better as adults.”

One corner of Gold’s mouth turned up and he looked at Miss French. “Will she, indeed? What do you say, Miss French? Are you going to stay here with Sir Gregory?”

“Do you mean to say you are actually including me in this conversation, now?” Miss French asked peevishly.

“Of course, dearie. Will you stay here with - er - your would-be future husband? Or will you come to Grosvenor Street with me?”

“Couldn’t you set me up in a home of my own?”

“I  _ could _ , but I won’t. I promised Liam that I would discharge his duties as faithfully as he would himself, and I never break my word. Somehow, leaving you to fend for yourself in London doesn’t strike me as something he would do.”

Oh, he had her there, he could tell. The use of Jones’s nickname was well-chosen. She was softening, imagining him as a surrogate uncle, perhaps, someone who had been fond of the old man and had only her best interests at heart.

“You must stay here, Bella,” Sir Gregory said. “As head of the family, I…”

“No one decides my fate but me, Greg,” Miss French snapped.

And suddenly, with no warning whatsoever, Gold discovered that he really would not mind marrying Bella French at all, which meant, of course, that he couldn’t. His revenge was more important than his happiness, and he could not afford any distractions. Miss French, with her determined mind and angelic beauty, would  _ most definitely _ be a distraction. He had offered her the choice, however, and he could only hope that she would choose her handsome young suitor over her crippled old guardian. It seemed a fairly easy choice to him, and he expected her to resume her seat and dismiss him at any moment.

Instead her eyes flitted over Gold’s face, her expression indecipherable. She worried her lip with her teeth and glanced briefly at her cousin before squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. Garnet leapt to his feet, but Miss French’s eyes met and held Gold’s.

“Miss Hammond and I will be ready to leave tomorrow morning,” she said firmly.

Garnet’s jaw dropped but Gold felt the lad could not be more surprised than he was.

“Bella, you don’t know what you’re saying!” Garnet said firmly.

Miss French fixed him with another icy glare. “I assure you, Gregory, I always know what I am saying.” Her gaze returned to Gold. “Will nine o’clock suit you? We will require some assistance with our belongings.”

“Yes, of course,” Gold murmured.

Garnet’s face turned red and he turned to Gold. “Now, see here, sir, you cannot mean to…”

“Take my ward and her companion under my roof and see after their welfare? I can and I do. I’m sure, Sir Gregory,” he continued when the lad appeared about to interrupt, “you have much to do yourself if you are to take possession of this house tomorrow. By all means don’t let us keep you.”

Garnet stood foolishly in the middle of the room looking back and forth between the two of them. When neither said anything more, he gave a shallow bow and hastily left the room. When he was gone, Miss French released a shaky breath, then smiled at Gold with something akin to triumph.

“I wouldn’t look so pleased, if I were you,” Gold grumbled. “I’m not the best of company and it’ll be a long, dreary six months for you.”

“Mourning isn’t meant to be enjoyed,” she pointed out. “Greg would no doubt try to ‘entertain’ me. I needn’t fear that with you, need I?”

“No.”

“I suspect we’ll do very well together, then.”

With an effort Gold rose to leave. “Nine o’clock, you said?”

She bit her lip again and Gold averted his eyes. That nervous habit of hers was much too distracting. “Would you mind terribly meeting at eight instead? I would rather be gone before Gregory comes back, and he’s sure to be here around nine.”

“Eight, then. ‘Til tomorrow, Miss French.”

She curtsied and made a strange gesture, as if she were about to offer him her hand but thought better of it. “Goodbye, Mr. Gold.”

When the door was shut behind him, Gold took a very deep breath. The visit had been much more disconcerting than he had expected. He was no longer sure if this guardianship was likely to be to his advantage; in fact, he had the distinct impression that Miss French was going to give him a great deal of trouble.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It turns out neither had expected the other.

When both their visitors were gone, Sophie Hammond finally looked up from her knitting. “Those men are going to be trouble, Belle,” she said firmly.

Belle was still staring at the door behind which Mr. Gold had disappeared. “Hmm?”

Sophie laughed. “Trouble!”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Sophie,” Belle protested, her cheeks warming. “It will be a very comfortable, quiet summer, I’m sure.”

“With Sir Gregory sniffing about and Mr. Gold growling him away from the door? Don’t wager on it, missy.”

“He didn’t seem very keen on Greg’s suit, did he?” Belle smiled.

Sophie’s sharp eyes looked over her young charge. “Oh, Belle,” she sighed, “you must be careful,  _ comprenez-vous _ ?”

“ _ Oui, mon amie _ ,” Belle answered, “but I seriously doubt Mr. Gold has any evil intentions.”

“ _ His _ intentions! I am talking about yours. I saw the look on your face just now.”

“I can’t help that my new guardian is so handsome,” Belle argued, her blush deepening. “Or that he has such a lovely voice.”

“He’s twice your age, child.”

“Mm. Maybe more than that,” Belle mused.

“Belle!” Sophie laughed in spite of herself at her young friend’s dreamy tone. “That is not supposed to be a mark in his favor!”

Smiling sheepishly, Belle shrugged. “You know I’ve never cared much for young men. I suppose we’ve discovered why.”

Sophie sighed and picked up her knitting again. “Do show the man a little mercy, then,  _ cherie _ ,” she said dryly. “We can’t have his heart giving out, can we?”

* * *

Belle and Sophie were packed and waiting for Mr. Gold well before eight o’clock. They had few personal effects, but those they had were precious to them. Mr. Gold, who had hired two extra carriages and a veritable army of men to move the household, eyed the modest number of boxes and trunks with doubt.

“Is this really all?” he asked suspiciously.

“It is,” Belle smiled, her hands clasped demurely before her.

With a sigh, her guardian dismissed half the men and one of the carriages. “We could almost have carried the whole lot ourselves,” he grumbled. Belle noticed that his brogue was thicker when he grumbled. It was devilishly attractive.

“Perhaps,” she allowed, and bit back a grin when Gold tried to lift one of her boxes himself.

“Damnation, girl!” he grimaced, abandoning the attempt. “Did you pack up the bricks from the fireplace?” Sophie cleared her throat loudly and Gold muttered an apology for his language.

“No, my books.”

“You’re taking the library? Wouldn’t that go to Garnet with the rest of the house?”

“My father’s books he is quite welcome to keep. These are my own collection.”

Mr. Gold looked at the pile again. “How many of those contain books?”

“About half.”

His eyes widened. “You’re aware Jones had a library of his own.”

“I am.”

“And that it has, in fact, a great number of books you’re more than welcome to read.”

“Yes.”

His eyes searched hers and she met his gaze with a gentle smile. At last he shrugged. “So be it.”

He motioned for the men to take the boxes away and stood in the hall with both hands resting on his cane. Belle noticed that although many of the hired men were taller and larger than he, his authority was unmistakable. In much less time than she had supposed, every package had its place and she was sharing kind farewells with the staff of her father’s townhouse. The housekeeper, who had known her from girlhood, even shed a few tears over her. Belle assured them all of her gratitude and her conviction that they would find the new baronet a good master. Through it all, she felt Mr. Gold’s eyes upon her, and she wondered what he meant by watching her so closely.

When they were all situated in his carriage, he lost no time telling her his thoughts. “That was an interesting little scene,” he remarked. “Are you always so familiar with the servants?”

Belle looked at him quizzically. “They served Papa and me very well, some of them as long as I’ve been alive. Why would I not value and respect them?”

He shook his head. “That was more than respect. You  _ like _ them. You  _ care _ about them.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because they are fellow humans of worth equal to my own.” Her voice sharpened and she was inwardly stamping down a quite irrational amount of disappointment. She had so hoped he was different.

“Oh, dear,” he all but whispered, “you’re one of those, are you?”

“Those?”

The corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. “I do hope you can keep your...er... _ sentimentality _ to yourself, dearie. Might make it difficult to marry you off, and then I’ll never have you off my hands.”

“That  _ would _ be a terrible shame,” Belle said indifferently.

“Dreadful.”

Belle saw Sophie look pointedly over her spectacles and dropped the subject. Latin and geometry she understood, but the labyrinthine rules of polite conversation she had never quite mastered. She knew she often toed the line between impertinence and rudeness, but she could rarely determine where exactly that line was, especially as it seemed to move depending on her audience.

She had the feeling she could be rather shockingly rude to Mr. Gold without consequence.

“How long did you know Mr. Jones?” she asked when the air between them felt a little less thick.

“We were neighbors for twenty years.”

“So long! And yet I’ve never heard of you.”

“I could say the same of you,” he snapped. Belle was not cowed.

“I suppose there wouldn’t have been occasion to mention either of us to the other. He could hardly have expected us to know each other.”

Mr. Gold merely raised his eyebrows. Belle wondered disrespectfully if his eyebrows ever grew tired of moving up and down in that way. She considered asking him, but the slowing of the carriage drew her attention and she saw that they had arrived. Mr. Gold handed both of them out and gave them over into the care of the housekeeper, who promised them refreshment in twenty minutes’ time. Mr. Gold disappeared to Belle knew not where, and she and Sophie were quite properly left to inspect their accommodations on their own.

* * *

A knock on his study door drew Gold’s attention from the letter on his desk. At his invitation Miss French entered, her keen eyes taking in every aspect of the room, but drawn especially to the bookshelves.

“Sit,” he said curtly.

Miss French raised a brow and did as he bid. “My rooms are lovely, thank you,” she said demurely, “and so well appointed!”

“We’ll be leaving for Blackhall within the week, so don’t get too comfortable,” he replied.

“Oh, will we?”

“No use staying here.”

“I suppose not,” she said wistfully.

“You can’t dance or go to parties in mourning, dearie.”

“I know that, but there are other amusements I’d rather looked forward to.”

“No theater or concerts for you either.”

“Obviously. But there are several new scientific papers I haven't been able to send for yet, and an exhibition at the museum, and later this week I’d hoped to attend the lecture on...” Her voice trailed away when she met his eyes. “What is it? You’re looking at me as if I’ve grown another head.”

Gold supposed he must be, because his jaw had dropped at some point and his eyes were beginning to water. He remedied both of those problems and then smirked at his ward.

“I begin to understand,” he sneered with a malice he did not really feel. “The books, the independence, the scholarly pursuits. You,” he pointed at his ward, “are a bluestocking, Miss French.”

“Of the deepest, bluest shade,” she smiled in response. “How could I not be, with a father like my darling Papa?” When Gold merely raised his eyebrows, Miss French elaborated. “He was a scientist. An inventor.”

“Do tell.”

“Nothing particularly useful or noteworthy.” Miss French waved a hand as if to bat away any expectations of greatness. “Mostly he liked to cause explosions in his laboratory and invent gadgets for menial tasks. At one point I had a clockwork tea service that would put sugar in my tea for me.”

“Interesting.”

“Especially as I was unsure how to make it stop without hitting it with something.”

A snort of laughter escaped Gold.

“Papa was so disappointed. He’d hoped I’d eventually discover how to improve it.”

“Are you also of a scientific mind then?” The thought was alarming.

“Not like Papa - though I suppose no one was or ever will be quite like Papa - but he was adamant that I supplement my lady’s education with a few more…less decidedly feminine accomplishments. My father thought no subject unfit for his daughter. What my governesses refused to teach, he taught me himself.”

“Including chemistry and archaeology, I suppose.”

“And mathematics and politics and philosophy and Greek and Latin. I’m not a master of any of them, heaven knows, but if father taught me one thing more thoroughly than anything else, it was to love to learn.”

“Well, your,” Gold cleared his throat, “ _ intellectual _ pursuits notwithstanding, we will leave for Yorkshire in two days. I trust you can be ready.”

Miss French’s pretty lips pursed as she thought. “We can send some of our things by cart, can’t we?”

“Certainly. But what could you possibly need that - no, don’t tell me! Your books.”

Miss French smiled and gave a little shrug of her shoulders. “You did say it would be a long and lonely summer. At least I’ll have all my dearest friends with me.” She rose. “Will there be anything else?”

“Yes, dearie, one more thing.”

She resumed her seat and raised her eyebrows.

“I was not being flippant when I spoke of husbands. I’m an old widower with no marital aspirations, and I will not play kindly uncle to you longer than absolutely necessary. When your mourning period ends, you will be presented at court and no doubt inundated with suitors.”

“Inundated! Really!” Miss French’s eyes sparkled. “Not deluged, engulfed, or overrun?”

“All four, most likely.” Gold ruthlessly fought down a smile. “I won’t expect you to take the first dunderhead who expresses an interest, especially as it’s likely to be the lummox himself. I do, however, expect you to consider your suitors very seriously. Ideally, you will be married at the end of the season.”

“You are very optimistic about my marriage prospects. What shall we do if this plethora of proposals doesn’t come to pass?”

“It will.”

“What makes you so certain?”

“Your fortune of course.”

The twinkle in her eyes was instantly doused. “Oh, yes. Of course. I am now rich enough to buy the very best husband on the market.”

“Precisely.”

“Let me tell you something, Mr. Gold,” she said seriously, leaning forward. “My fortune is not dependent on your whims. Neither is it contingent upon my marrying. It will be entirely at my disposal when I reach my majority next year - won’t it?”

“What do you…”

“Won’t it?”

“Yes,” Gold sighed in defeat. “Yes, it will.”

“Excellent. Then you may spare me your instructions about marriage and husbands. My father left me with the means to decide my own fate, and I will not allow you to bully me into any such decision.”

“Well, if you aren’t going to marry, what exactly  _ are _ you going to do?”

“I never said I wouldn’t marry, but either way my plans are my business and no one else’s.” Miss French rose again with an air that would put the Queen herself to shame. “Will there be anything more, sir?”

Gold stared at her, marveling at the way her icy eyes grew frostier with each passing second. He held his silence a little longer than necessary on principle, and to see just how cold her gaze could become. When he fancied he might be able to see his breath on the air, he said, “No. That is all, Miss French.”

She curtsied with mock solemnity and swept from the room, and Gold let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Hell, but she was magnificent. He was beginning to understand that the only safe reaction to Bella French was to avert one’s eyes and make noncommittal noises. Looking directly at her was akin to staring at the sun, and engaging her in conversation could tie one up in verbal knots. She was not one to play by conversational rules, and Gold was dismayed to find that he was often out of his element with her. He was not one for the expected, but he found that he had always relied on a script of sorts: one in which he said the unexpected or unacceptable thing and his listeners reacted with proper shock and horror. With Miss French his outrageous words fell limply to the floor and she would gaze at them a moment, pick them up, use them to fashion words equally outrageous of her own, and fling those words back at him with deadly accuracy.

He was no match for her, and he was used to being matchless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for kudos and kind words! Bella is going to run poor Gold ragged.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their first day at Blackhall is full of surprises.

Belle’s first glimpse of Blackhall was not promising. Granted, the night was stormy and the road rough and muddy, but the house itself was dark and forbidding, with great ancient elms on either side of a gated stone wall. When she dared a glance at Mr. Gold, he looked grimly satisfied, not pleased or content as one might expect of a man coming home. There was something dark and forbidding in his expression, and Belle found it strangely compelling. Grimness suited the harsh lines of his handsome face. She resolved not to share  _ that _ particular thought with Sophie.

When they clattered into the hall, there was no line of servants to welcome them. In fact, there was no one there at all but a fat, worried-looking housekeeper, who was shaking in her boots as her master approached her.

“M-Mr. G-Gold, sir,” she stammered. “W-welcome.”

“A pretty poor welcome, this, Mrs. Potts,” Mr. Gold sneered. “Where are the others?”

“Th-there are no others, s-sir,” the old lady sniffled. “All’ve gone but me and Ch-Chip.”

“Chip.” Mr. Gold’s eyes narrowed, then he sighed deeply. “Can you procure us tea, Mrs. Potts?”

“I could, sir, only - only there’s no wood for a fire in the drawing room, and…” her voice trailed away helplessly.

“Is there a fire in the kitchen, Mrs. Potts?” Belle asked.

Mrs. Potts turned astonished eyes to her. “Y-yes, Miss…”

“Miss French. If it wouldn’t be imposing on you too terribly, could we warm ourselves by your fire? If there’s tea to be had, we’ll be glad of it, but it isn’t necessary.”

Mrs. Potts was gaping at her, and Belle squirmed inwardly, wondering if she’d broken some rule of etiquette. She glanced at Sophie, but Sophie was eyeing Mr. Gold with a strange sort of triumph, and Belle saw that he was staring fixedly at herself. His hands flexed on the gold handle of his cane.

“Of-of course, Miss French,” Mrs. Potts said finally. “That is, Mr. Gold, if…”

“Fine.” He rather ungraciously extended an arm to Miss Hammond and followed Belle and his housekeeper through the hall and into the very depths of the house to the kitchens. There was a fire, but it was a feeble one, and Belle drew as close as she dared. Mrs. Potts placed a kettle near the coals and stood wringing her hands once more.

“The rooms are ready as you instructed, sir, but…”

“It’s evident that the ladies will need an extra blanket or two,” Mr. Gold inferred curtly. “See to it, will you?”

Mrs. Potts curtsied and hurried away. Belle shot a reproachful look at her guardian and rose from her chair. As she scoured the cupboards searching for tea leaves and anything at all to eat, Gold drew closer to her abandoned chair by the fire. She thought his limp looked more pronounced.

“Sit, Mr. Gold,” she called from the washbasin, where she had discovered a few clean cups on the draining board.

“I’m fine,” he snapped.

“You’re not. Wet weather often exacerbates joint pain. The heat will soothe it.”

He glared at her and remained standing. Belle shrugged and resumed her work. When the kettle whistled, she bustled about preparing the tea. She carried the tray back to the fire and placed it on a stool near the hearth. Glancing at the stubbornly standing Gold, she knelt on the floor and began to pour. She could practically hear him grinding his teeth, but she pretended not to notice his piercing stare and smiled benignly as she handed him his cup.

He growled his thanks, held the cup in his hands for the most fleeting of moments to allow it to cool and then tossed back half the contents in one gulp. Or at least, he tried to.

“What the devil?” he gasped when his coughs subsided. Tears streamed from his eyes and Belle smiled wickedly.

“A splash of whisky in each cup,” she said, sipping her own and enjoying the pleasant heat in her throat. “I thought we could all use the extra warmth. I found it in one of the cupboards - probably the cook’s private bottle. I don’t think she’ll miss it, do you?” She winked.

Gold was staring at her again, and Belle was growing to love unnerving him. Holding his gaze, she raised her cup to her lips and slowly, deliberately, drank every last drop in a single long swallow. His eyes darkened and his jaw clenched. He lifted his cup in a mock toast, drained it, and stalked from the room.

Belle let out a sound that was half sigh, half giggle, and Sophie shook her head. “I told you to show him mercy, Belle.”

“I don’t want to. He wants to marry me off to the highest bidder, and I’m going to make him sorely regret that.”

* * *

 

Gold did not go to his rooms. He strode out into the rain and straight to the woodshed, barking at the footmen as he passed the stables. He heard them grumble as they followed him, but the rain was refreshing and invigorating on his heated skin, and he paid them no mind. He would have gone anywhere, braved any weather, to escape Bella French and her smiling, teasing, whisky-drinking self. That damned kitchen had felt as if it were a thousand degrees. Helping the men stack the wood in an empty room in the servants’ quarters kept his mind from recalling the saucy curve of her mouth, the brilliance of her laughing eyes, and the movement of her milky throat as she drank whisky-laced tea as if it were water. The scent of the rain-dampened earth drove from his mind the question of whether she tasted of tea and whisky - a potent combination for a Scotsman. The sour looks from the footmen replaced the heady image of her grinning, winking face.

Bloody hell. He was grateful for the exhaustion in his mind and body, because he was able to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.

The shed had kept the wood tolerably dry, and in the morning the footmen and Mrs. Potts went about to the drawing room and bedrooms building fires. Miss French, Mrs. Potts reported fearfully, had insisted on making up her own and Miss Hammond’s beds, and was currently engaged in unpacking the ladies’ trunks, having denied the housekeeper’s help.

“‘You run off and see to Mr. Gold,’ she said. She said she’d take care of the two of ‘em.” Gold merely raised an eyebrow before turning the subject.

They needed servants, and they needed them immediately. There were grates to be cleaned, dishes and laundry to be washed, floors to be swept and mopped, and a whole host of little duties to be attended to. Mrs. Potts, capable though she was, could not possibly be expected to handle it all. The footmen and coachman he’d brought from London might be persuaded to stay for a few weeks, but they had families and duties in London and would be anxious to return home. He expressed all this to Mrs. Potts, who fidgeted and frowned and finally, in a voice that betrayed her terror of his wrath, told him what he’d already guessed: there would be no servants for hire in this part of the county. Gold’s reputation was such - the younger Jones had so thoroughly ruined him - that no one would work for him. They would need to send to Richmond, or even further, and hope one of the agencies there could supply them.

“Very well,” Gold grumbled. “Write your letters, Mrs. Potts, and try what can be done. In the meantime, we’ll have to muddle through.”

The thought of returning to London had flitted through his mind, but he hated the city and Jones would not win in this way. Running back with his tail between his legs would be granting Jones his victory, and Gold had come too far to concede now. Moreover, he was curious to see how Miss French, this daughter of privilege, comported herself under continued hardship. Would she wilt? Complain? Faint? He was actually rather eager to find out.

* * *

 

Sophie had wanted to join her, but Belle insisted that she stay in the drawing room. Youthful as was her mind, Sophie Hammond was not a young woman, and Belle would not hear of her lifting a finger to help. Breakfast ought to be served soon, and Mrs. Potts was sure to need assistance. Donning her oldest black gown, Belle walked into the kitchen to find Mrs. Potts weeping over a pan of burnt eggs.

“Oh! Miss French!” Mrs. Potts sniffed, wiping ineffectively at her eyes. “I - Breakfast might be…”

Belle smiled and placed a hand on the woman’s arm. “Do you have a spare apron?”

Mrs. Potts’s watery eyes widened. “Miss French, you can’t possibly…”

“I have almost no experience in the kitchen, it’s true, but I’m a fast learner, and you need help. Please allow me to help you.”

The older woman smiled shakily and indicated a door that, Belle discovered, led to a small pantry. Hanging on a hook by the door was a clean white apron, which Belle tied over her dress. She spent the next hour in the kitchen, listening carefully to Mrs. Potts’s instructions about flame and flavorings, laughing at her own ineptness, and finally drawing more confident smiles from the housekeeper. Once, Mrs. Potts even gently teased her about her propensity for using too much fat in the pan and Belle laughed aloud.

“Have you worked here long?” Belle asked when all seemed properly prepared.

“Oh, bless you, yes,” Mrs. Potts chuckled. “I was a scullery maid here as a young girl - met my husband here, as a matter of fact, and my sweet boy met his wife here, too. Died of fevers, though, all of them, except my Chip.”

“You mentioned him last night. Will I meet him today, do you think?”

“Oh, once he’s heard Mr. Gold’s back he’ll show himself fast enough. Monstrous fond of him he is, though the good Lord alone knows why. No one else can stand the beast.” Mrs. Potts clapped both hands over her mouth and turned to face Belle with terrified eyes. “Oh, heavens, I...I’m sorry, miss, I...I don’t know how I could...I…”

Belle studied her seriously. “I suppose now I know why all the servants left. All but you.”

“This house is Chip’s only home, and I…”

“What has Mr. Gold done to deserve such an epithet from you?”

“‘Tisn’t just me, miss. This part of the country knows him for what he is: a monster. He’s that sly and cunning, miss. Master Cillian, he always tried to make things right, to smooth things over, but there was no denying the fights and the drinking and...and the women…” Mrs. Potts averted her eyes. “I beg your pardon, miss, most sincerely, but when you climbed out of that coach, I thought...well…”

“Did Mr. Gold often carry out his…affairs…here?”

“No, I can’t say as we here at the Hall ever saw...but we heard tell, miss.”

“From whom?”

“Everyone, miss. No one will work here on account of his character.”

Belle stood and went to the stove on pretence of checking the food, her head spinning. There was something not quite right about Mrs. Potts’s story, but she did not doubt the woman’s veracity. Whatever the truth was, Mrs. Potts believed she spoke it; Belle would have to discover whether her belief was warranted.

“You ought to rest, Mrs. Potts,” Belle said, noticing the time. “I’ll carry the breakfast in.”

“Rest? Bless you, dear, there’s too much work to do. I’ll begin right away.”

“Will you meet with me in an hour? I’d like to help you until we find someone more experienced to assist.”

“Heavens, child. Are you sure you aren’t an angel in disguise?” Mrs. Potts shook her head and bustled away while Belle carried the tray into the breakfast parlor.

Mr. Gold and Sophie were already seated at the table, unease pulsing in the air. Gold’s eyes widened at the sight of her and he looked ready to leap to his feet, but Belle smiled and placed the tray carefully on the table. “Mrs. Potts needed to begin her cleaning, so I offered to carry in,” she said cheerfully. “Did you sleep well?”

“Very.”

“Gracious, did you actually cook, Bella?” Sophie asked, laughter lacing her voice.

“Not much of it,” Belle allowed, “but I’ll learn.”

“Why would you do that, dearie?” Gold ground out.

“You ought to know that,” Belle smiled, handing him a cup of tea. “Didn’t I tell you what I love more than anything else?”

“Aye, learning. I haven’t forgotten.” He raised his cup to his lips, but paused, his eyebrows raising to exaggerated heights. “The tea is fit for human consumption, I trust?”

“Not a nip of whisky, I promise.”

“So, no, then?”

Belle laughed and thought she saw a flicker of a surprised smile on his grim face. She bit her lip and smiled back, her heart fluttering when he smirked and lifted his cup in a toast. Sophie cleared her throat loudly and Belle took her seat, focusing the majority of her attention on her friend, but she could not help occasionally stealing glances at her guardian, who seemed to be having the same sort of trouble.

From breakfast to dinner Belle was kept so busy she nearly forgot that she had wanted to question Mr. Gold about his reputation in these parts. There was so  _ much _ to do, and though Mrs. Potts was careful to do the most difficult tasks herself, that still left plenty for Belle. She beat rugs and hung wet laundry, swept halls and dusted tapestries, and when it was time to prepare dinner Belle actually forewent the tradition of bathing and dressing so that she could continue to help. She was quieter during the meal, her weariness stealing her smiles and conversation, and she felt Gold’s eyes on her throughout the meal. When she rose to take the tray to the kitchen, both Sophie and Gold stood.

“No, Bella,” Sophie said firmly. “I will help Mrs. Potts now. You need to rest.”

“But, Sophie…”

“I was hoping for your opinion on a very important matter, Miss French,” Mr. Gold said in a tone that brooked no opposition. “I’ll join you in the drawing room shortly.”

“Very well,” Belle said stiffly. She made her way to the drawing room and approached the fire, curling in one of the large armchairs before it. When Mr. Gold entered, she would sit up like a proper lady, but for now she wanted to be comfortable. She gazed at the flames and thought of the many changes wrought in her life in a mere few weeks; she imagined what her father would say to see her now. He would no doubt be fascinated by what she was learning, proud of how she had offered to help, and suddenly she missed him so desperately she thought her heart would break. Tears streamed down her cheeks and blurred the flames into a single great glow, and she leaned her head against the wing of the chair.  _ Papa, darling Papa _ .

* * *

 

Gold entered the drawing room a little uncertainly, having rarely been tasked with entertaining a woman in the evening - alone. He had certainly not been used to sitting tete-a-tete with a woman of Miss French’s sort...if there were women of her sort. He was beginning to doubt that there were.

He must not be hasty, though. She had admitted to curiosity and he had already detected a certain impulsivity in her - and it was only the first day. The novelty of working as a maid would no doubt wear off soon, and she would revert to being dissatisfied and discontent, and he could cease wondering what she would do next. She would become, finally, predictable.

At first glance, he thought the room empty and suspected, with unreasonable dismay, that she had retired early rather than sit alone with him. Closer inspection of the chairs by the fire revealed that his ward had curled up in one of them like a cat, with her head tilted back and - Gold’s dormant old heart squeezed a little - the telltale marks of fresh tears on her cheeks. The firelight flickered over her face which, dirty as it was from her day’s work, was rendered ethereally beautiful in repose. He still found it remarkable - unbelievable, even - that such a woman was yet unmarried. Her scholarly pursuits might deter the weakest of his sex, but he couldn’t imagine many a man who would give a damn what she did with her mind as long as her smiles were directed at him alone.

For a man who  _ valued _ intelligence and independence in women she would be damn near lethal.

She stirred a little in her sleep and the serenity of her expression was marred by a frown. “ _ Papa, _ ” she muttered fretfully, and Gold’s heart twitched again. She had made not one murmur, uttered not one wail, voiced not one complaint, and yet she must be enduring the most consuming and relentless pain of all. The death of one’s parent must always come as a blow, and considering that even he had been not untouched by that blow when his own father passed, he could not conceive how much more terrible Miss French’s grief must be, and how few people she had with whom to share it. He settled in the chair next to hers and watched her, freed from expectations and able to gaze on her face as long as he wished.

“Papa,” she said again more clearly, and her movements became more agitated. She sat up suddenly, her eyes wide but unseeing. “No, Papa!” she cried, and Gold was out of his chair in a moment and kneeling at her side. He took one of her hands in both of his and rubbed it slowly, murmuring nonsense softly as he had done for Bae when his nightmares had gripped him. Miss French calmed presently, and Gold contemplated his position. One the one hand, this pose, half-kneeling by her chair, was absolute hell on his ankle, not to mention Miss Hammond would walk through that door at any moment and catch him holding her charge’s hand. On the other, Miss French’s breathing was decidedly calmer and her face more serene, and he flattered himself that his proximity had something to do with that. Her hand was damnably soft, too. On the whole, he decided that he would stay here and damn the consequences.

He did not have much time to enjoy his position. Presently she stirred and her eyelids fluttered, and Gold relinquished her hand and hastened to his own chair. He leaned back as if he’d been there all the time, and Miss French blinked owlishly at him.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she gasped.

Her voice was husky with sleep and Gold ruthlessly fought down a flicker of attraction. “No matter.”

“I may not have the firmest grasp on proper etiquette, but I am fairly sure one isn’t meant to fall asleep on one’s host.”

Well, that was just playing dirty. Another flicker, more powerful than the first, overtook him and he felt as if all possible suggestive replies were battling each other behind his teeth, vying for the privilege of escaping his lips and mortifying him completely. It didn’t help that Miss French, for all she had seemed an innocent maiden, was blushing as if she knew  _ exactly _ what she had accidentally implied.

They stared at each other in mutual silence until, thank heavens, Miss Hammond appeared and drew Miss French into quiet conversation - she never spoke much to Gold. Their conversation gave him time to compose himself, and just as he thought that he might survive the night with his dignity intact, the door banged open and a mop-headed boy of ten years old dashed into the room and launched himself at Gold.

“Mr. Gold! They said you’d come!”

His face aflame, Gold set the boy away from him. “Chip. I see your manners haven’t improved since I saw you last.”

The boy shrugged unapologetically.

“It has apparently escaped your notice that there are ladies present,” Gold growled.

“Oh!” Chip turned to Belle and Miss Hammond and executed a hasty but graceful bow. Belle’s eyes were tinkling with restrained mirth. “How d’ye do?” he asked.

Gold groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Miss Hammond, Miss French, I have the dubious pleasure of introducing Mr. Charles Potts to your notice. If, as I rather suspect, you find him unworthy of it, you are welcome to box his ears.”

Miss Hammond’s eyes widened, but Belle laughed, and Gold fought down his answering grin. Chip was staring at Belle with wide eyes.

“Are you a princess, miss?” he asked, wonder coloring his tone.

Belle shook her head. “Of course not. Do you know any princesses covered in dust?” She indicated her face and hands.

“Cinderella was.”

“Ah, yes, but she wasn’t a princess until she married the prince.”

“Oh, that’s right.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe you’re a princess in disguise.”

To Gold’s surprise, Belle’s face shuttered and her eyes lost a bit of their sparkle. “No, I’m afraid not,” she said quietly.

Chip shrugged, the mystery quickly losing its appeal. “Where did you go this time?” he asked, turning his attention back to Gold.

“London, to settle some of Mr. Jones’s business.”

“What did you bring me?”

Gold’s eyes narrowed. “Who says I brought you anything?”

“You always do.”

“Doesn’t mean I always will.”

They stared silently at each other until a muscle in Gold’s cheek twitched. Chip grinned. Gold snorted. “My sitting room. Large trunk. Striped box.”

“Peppermints!” Chip bolted out the door.

“Spoiled brat,” Gold grumbled to himself.

Belle thought the pressure building in her chest might crush her heart. Had Mrs. Potts never seen him interact with her grandson, or did she imagine that his growls and grumbles and insults and threats were genuine? Gold looked up and caught her staring at him, and Belle tried to school her expression into something a little more demure and ladylike. It wouldn’t do to ogle her guardian.

Mr. Gold seemed to think he’d revealed too much; he was silent and surly for the rest of the evening. Sophie sent Belle warning looks whenever she thought her charge was growing impertinent, which was often. Fortunately Belle was too exhausted to sit up and torment Mr. Gold for very long. She excused herself early and, the moment her head touched the pillow, she fell into a deep sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a sleepless night for the residents at Blackhall.

“Belle, you must wake up! Quickly, my dear!”

“ _Maman_ , what is it? Why…?”

“You must go with your _papa_ , dear, no time to lose!”

Belle struggled to free herself from the blankets, but in the next moment her mother was gone and Belle was standing in a dark room.

“Well, well, la Belle. You grow lovelier every day.”

The familiar voice sent chills down her spine.

“Monsieur D’Arque,” she breathed.

“Where is your mother, _ma beauté_?”

“I don’t know,” Belle gasped.

“We will find her, never fear. She has an appointment with Madame la Guillotine, but I could be persuaded to step in...for a price.” He appeared suddenly quite close to her, the scant light casting most of his face in shadow as he drew one sharp-nailed finger down her cheek.

Belle flinched. “My mother is to die?”

“ _Oui, cherie,_ at first light. But it is in _your_ power to save her. One word from you and her pretty neck will remain unmarred.” He pulled her to him and snaked an arm around her waist. “What do you say? Do we have a deal?”

She tried to shove him away, but her arms were too heavy to lift. She wanted to scream, but her voice was less than a whisper. As his leering face grew to fill her sight she squeezed her eyes shut -

and opened them again to reveal the dark of her bedroom at Blackhall, relieved a little by the glow of the fire.

Panting as if she’d run miles, Belle shoved her blankets away from her body and rose on shaky legs, her damp nightgown clinging to her clammy skin. Her belly clenched and Belle dug her nails into her palms, hating the weakness that could create these nightmares years later. Pulling on a dressing gown and taking a candle, she stole silently from her room and padded down to the library. She would find something soothing to read until she could fall asleep again.

The library was dark and quiet and smelled of ink and wood and musty books; she inhaled deeply and felt the shivers in her muscles begin to subside. Here she was safe, here she could relax. She set her candle on a table and studied the titles on the shelf nearest the desk. As she reached out a hand to select one, a voice sounded out of the dark.

“Well, well. Miss French.”

Belle screamed.

* * *

 

Gold had been unable to sleep. Dreams of Jones and Milah assaulted him far less often these days, but living in Blackhall again had brought those memories back with disturbing clarity. The library was one of the few rooms untainted by recollections of his wife and her lover - neither cared much for books - and as such was his preferred sanctuary.

The well-stocked liquor cabinet in the room held some appeal as well.

He was unused to anyone else being up and about in the middle of the night, so when the door had opened, he had shifted his grip on his cane, prepared to defend himself against the intruder. When he recognized Bella he relaxed his grip, but other muscles had been pulled taut.

She unnerved him.

When he said her name he expected a gasp or a scold, not the shriek that curdled his blood and rattled his teeth. As her knees buckled and her eyes rolled, he had only a second to react. Launching himself out of his chair - he gritted his teeth against the pain in his ankle - he reached her side just in time to stop her from striking her head on the floor.

Footsteps sounded in the hall as he lowered himself to his knees and placed her gently on the floor (he certainly could not carry her). Mrs. Potts was the first to arrive, and she stood in the doorway gaping at him in horror.

“You…” she whispered, “you beast...how...how could you…”

Fury bloomed in his chest and he opened his mouth to show her exactly how beastly he could be, but his breath was stolen from him when Miss Hammond appeared and dropped to her knees next to him, her gaze clear and trusting.

“What happened?” she asked.

“She fainted,” he said uselessly.

“Did you say or do anything?”

He almost snapped at her, but she looked concerned, not accusatory. “I...I said her name.”

“Oh, _mon trésor_ ,” Miss Hammond breathed.

“What is going on?” He strove to keep his voice even.

“She must have had a nightmare,” Miss Hammond said, smoothing Belle’s hair back from her face, “and you surprised her.”

“A nightmare? Does this happen often?”

“Not for a few years.”

Bella’s eyelids fluttered and then opened. “ _Que...qu’est-il arrivé?_ ” she murmured.

Gold’s eyebrows shot up. He’d expected her to speak French - most well-born ladies did, bluestockings or no - but to revert to it on returning to consciousness? That was rare.

“Mr. Gold surprised you, dearest. Are you well?”

“I _fainted_?” she said in disbelief. She sat up slowly and eyed him warily. “What did you do?”

“Said your name.”

She glanced around the library and then looked back at him. Her face darkened. “I see.” She turned to her companion. “I’m well, Sophie, truly. Go back to bed.”

“But Belle…”

“I came for a book. I’ll go directly to my room when I have it.” Miss Hammond seemed undecided. “ _Je vais_ **_bien_ ** _, Sophie,”_ she insisted.

Her companion sighed and shook her head, then turned away, dragging Mrs. Potts with her. Bella got gingerly to her feet and arranged her gown more carefully around herself, averting her eyes respectfully as Gold struggled to stand.

“If I speak will you scream again?” he asked dryly.

Bella rolled her eyes. “I suppose that depends on what you have to say.”

“I apologize for frightening you,” he mumbled.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she sighed, and then eyed him, suddenly curious. “What were you doing in here?” She looked past him and saw the decanter of whisky and the half-filled glass. “I disturbed you! I’m sorry.”

“It’s no matter.”

Those impossible eyes of hers studied him for a few moments, and then she approached the decanter, picked up an empty glass, and poured herself a finger of the whisky. As she began to raise it to her lips, she met his eyes and raised her eyebrows. “You wouldn’t make a lady drink alone?”

With a smirk he joined her and picked up his own glass, offering a toast. She smiled and touched her glass to his, and then took a long, slow sip of the liquor, betraying absolutely no discomfort or distaste. His heart beat a little harder in his chest when she sank into a chair and cradled her glass in both hands.

“You promised Miss Hammond you’d go to bed,” he reminded her, resuming his own seat.

“Yes - when I had my book. I don’t have one yet.”

“Were you looking for something in particular?”

“No. Something soothing.”

Her face was serious as she stared into her drink. Gold studied the lines of her profile as he drained his own glass. What possible horrors could haunt the slumber of a young beauty like his ward? What could drive her from her bed and render her so terrified that she would scream at the sound of her name? He had never before been curious about another person, but the mysteries hidden behind her guileless face intrigued him more than was probably at all wise.

“What drove you to seek comfort in the bottom of a glass?” she asked, shaking herself out of her reverie.

“I’m a Scot, dearie. I don’t need an excuse to drink whisky.”

She smiled and held his gaze as she took another long drink, and then sat and looked at him expectantly.

“This house - it doesn’t quite feel like home to me yet,” he conceded in the hopes that she would cease her examination of his face.

“You used to live here, didn’t you? With Mr. Jones?”

“Aye.”

“But it wasn’t home?”

“Haven’t had much of a home for years, dearie,” he snapped.

Bella hummed, seemingly unperturbed by his temper, and continued to watch him with clear-eyed sympathy.

“But you had one once?”

Lord, but she was persistent. “Aye. I did.”

“What happened?”

“I lost it.”

Her brows drew together, but she did not question him further. She took another sip of her whisky and relaxed further into her chair, one fingertip now tracing the rim of the glass. Her eyes were like jewel-bright pins, and he fought to keep from squirming like a butterfly trapped underneath them.

“So did I,” she said at last, her voice low and sad.

Finally, blessedly, her gaze dropped from his and she drained the rest of her drink. She tilted her head back to rest on the back of the tall armchair and closed her eyes, and he wrenched his gaze away from her throat. “You should go to bed,” he grumbled.

“So should you.”

“Who is guardian to whom, exactly?”

She opened one eye to peek at him and the corner of her mouth lifted a little. “You may be my guardian, but you are _not_ my father.”

Oh, he was only too well aware of that. “Perhaps not, but I am the one with the purse-strings until next year.”

Bella shrugged and closed her eyes again. “You wouldn’t starve me or let me go about in rags, and I hate shopping.”

“Ah, but how would you purchase those precious books of yours?”

Now her eyes flew open and she sat up straight. “You wouldn’t!”

“Defy me again and find out.”

He almost smiled at the expression on her face. After what appeared to be a mighty internal struggle, she glanced down at her glass. “Oh, dear! It appears that I’ve finished my drink.”

Gold bit the inside of his cheek. “So you have.”

Bella rose from her chair and deliberately approached the shelves. “I think I see a novel here I haven’t read before. I believe I’ll take it to my room. I did, after all,” she said with a pointed glance at him, “promise Sophie that I would retire when I’d found a book.”

“So you did.”

She pulled the book from the shelf and turned, brandishing it like a weapon. “You have not intimidated me.”

“Of course not.”

“I am _not_ going to bed because you told me to.”

“Clearly.”

“In fact, I probably won’t go to bed at all. I’ll probably sit up in my chair by the fire and read until daybreak.”

“I’ll never know the difference.” He rose from his chair and paced towards her. “Unless, of course, you fall asleep on me again.”

Eyes widening, Bella took a very small step back, her eyes fixed on his face.

“Very bad manners, to fall asleep on one’s host,” he reminded her.

Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes wide, and he didn’t think he imagined the little hitch in her breath as he leaned closer. Gold fought the urge to laugh in triumph, at finally having her at a disadvantage, uncertain and unbalanced. It was a dangerous game, though, standing so close to her and holding her gaze for so long. His own breath was coming a little faster, and he was being drawn closer when the clock on the desk chimed the hour and Bella started and backed away a couple of steps.

“G-goodnight, Mr. Gold,” she said in a voice she no doubt meant to be firm. Fortunately, she did not stay to hear his response, which probably would have sounded much the same. In a whirl of white cotton and lace she had disappeared into the bowels of the house, and Gold had his library to himself again. He sank back into his chair, prepared to revel in the silence and solitude once more.

Odd, then, that it should feel just a little bit chillier and duller than it had before Bella had disturbed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who don't know, Monsieur D'Arque is the name of the asylum owner in _Beauty and the Beast_. In this case, he's even more sinister.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An intruder upsets the delicate balance of life at Blackhall, and Belle and Gold learn quite a bit more about each other.

They had been at Blackhall nearly a week. Mrs. Potts was having a devil of a time finding help that would come to so remote a place, so Belle found herself growing more comfortable with her new life. In fact, she was even coming to enjoy it.

True, there was much less time for reading and studying, but she could always prop a book open above the stove while she cooked, or hold a tome with one hand and dust with the other. Of course, unless Mrs. Potts was able to assist, their meals tended to be a little on the scorched side and the surfaces may have gleamed a little less brilliantly than they could, but as Belle never heard Mr. Gold utter a single word of complaint, she decided that she was doing well.

He had taken to watching her sometimes, when he thought she wasn’t looking, as if he were searching for a missing puzzle piece. If he happened to be in a room she was cleaning, she could feel his eyes on her, though he was careful to avert his gaze when she turned to face him. What he expected to see she did not know, but his silent watchfulness was beginning to unnerve her.

She would have _liked_ to think that he admired her, but time and experience had taught her that once a gentleman realized her pretty head was filled with more than fluff, he quickly lost interest. Mr. Gold might be a bit different from the men she was used to - there was a certain roughness about him that suggested a less privileged background - but he must be the same in essentials. If he wanted a wife, which was doubtful as he certainly could have remarried before now, he would want what other men wanted: a pretty helpmeet to sit at his side and tell him how wonderful he was, agree with him in everything, bear his children and grace his name. The very idea made her cringe. Marriage had never been her object. Independently wealthy as she would be, she had not needed to make it a priority, and she had never met a man whose society she desired so much that she was willing to tie herself to him for life. She didn’t think she’d even found a man particularly attractive before, at least not in the ways whispered about behind fans or described in the least ladylike of her books.

Until Mr. Gold walked into her father’s parlor and she found herself breathless.

Later she would have been hard-pressed to explain what exactly she found so attractive about him. The handsome heroes in her books were all tall and powerful, broad of chest and strong of jaw. Mr. Gold stood only half a head taller than she, thin and compact, with a long hooked nose and thin lips, gray visible amongst the brown in his unfashionably long hair and unmistakable wrinkles at the corners of his large dark eyes. In fact, he looked more like the villains described in her favorite books, and he certainly would not be called handsome by any of the young women Belle had known. Yet his gaze made her breath catch, the quirk of his lips made her heart flutter, and the exceedingly rare touch of his hand made her skin tingle. Her sleep was growing less restful, her dreams warmer and sweeter.

If these were the feelings that drew women into matrimony, Belle could understand the appeal.

Sophie suspected, Belle knew. She had since that first meeting at the townhouse, but Belle doubted she knew how very little Mr. Gold’s silence and surliness affected her admiration of him. In a world that appeared to value charm and social graces over real substance, Belle could not help but be captivated by a man who unapologetically defied convention. She herself had little use for convention, after all.

After a week Belle fancied that she had formed a fair opinion of her guardian - he was serious, sometimes even dour, but hardly the picture of evil presented by Mrs. Potts. What possible foundation could her disgust have?

* * *

The tinkling of broken glass would not, perhaps, have woken her under normal circumstances. As it was she happened to be awake, pondering what exactly Mr. Gold had meant when he said this or that, and what exactly that quirk of the brow had been meant to express. The breaking of glass registered in her consciousness and she was up in an instant, donning a dressing gown and running out into the hallway before she could question the wisdom of such an action. Raised voices led her to the library where Mrs. Potts stood frozen with horror, her hands at her mouth. Belle gasped.

His eyes dark and wild, his teeth bared in a snarl, Mr. Gold was pressing his cane to the throat of a tall, cloaked man who was choking for breath against one of the bookcases. His hands scrabbled for purchase at his neck, trying to pry the cane away, but Mr. Gold’s smaller, slighter frame belied his strength; the man’s attempts to get free only seemed to aggravate his temper.

“You picked the wrong room, dearie,” Mr. Gold growled, and Belle shivered. “Looking for the dining room to get the silver, perhaps? Nothing in here but Scotch and old books.”

The man tried to answer, but Mr. Gold pressed his cane harder against his throat.

“Stop!” Her voice was little more than whisper, and Belle cleared her throat to try again. “Mr. Gold, stop!”

When he did not even glance her way, Belle ran forward, alarmed when the man’s eyes began to roll back in his head. She grabbed her guardian’s arm and pulled hard, straining to free the man from his grasp.

“You’re killing him!”

Mr. Gold seemed to snap out of his murderous daze. Rolling his eyes, he lowered his cane and watched as the man dropped to his knees on the floor, clutching at his throat and gasping.

Dove, the only footman who had agreed to stay until replacements could be found, rushed from the doorway and grasped the arms of the intruder. Mr. Gold placed both hands on his cane and stared steadily at his prisoner, his face a stony mask.

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I…I thought…” the man croaked, “I...thought the place...empty.”

A dry chuckle escaped Gold’s throat. “You realize I could have you hanged for this? Branded at the very least.”

“You couldn’t!” Belle cried.

Gold raised his eyebrows. “Oh, yes, I could, dearie. It’s the law of the land, after all.”

“You don’t know why he broke in. What if...what if he has a hungry family to feed and no money to buy bread?”

“That’s hardly my problem, is it?”

Belle narrowed her eyes. “You would condemn a man without a fair hearing?”

“Of course not,” he said smoothly. “Dove, take him to the wine cellar and lock him in. I’ll summon the magistrate first thing in the morning.”

The thief paled. “No,” he croaked. “Please...the magistrate is cold and cruel…a monster of a man.”

“We’ll get along splendidly, then,” Gold sneered. “Til tomorrow, dearie.”

Dove pushed and pulled the would-be thief out of the room, and Mr. Gold turned to look at the women who were all staring at him with varying degrees of horror in their expression.

“Back to bed, all of you,” he snapped.

Mrs. Potts squeaked and bustled out of the room. Sophie, after a pointed look at Belle, walked away more sedately. Belle, however, was not quite finished with her guardian.

“You _enjoyed_ that,” she accused.

“He broke into _my_ home, attempting to steal _my_ belongings,” he said. “Everyone knows if you try to steal from me I will show no mercy.”

“Has anyone attempted it before?”

Gold looked taken aback. “No, of course not.”

“Then how could everyone possibly know how you would react?”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, and then glared at her. “Didn’t I tell you to go back to bed?”

“Let the man go. He can do no harm now and he knows the house is occupied. He won’t do it again.”

“Your compassion is touching, but ultimately misplaced,” Gold sneered. “He will face the magistrate in the morning, and it is he who will decide what is to be done with the thief.”

“And if the magistrate is cruel?”

Gold shrugged. “That is the law.”

Belle stared at him. “How can you be so…?”

“I have already told you _twice_ to go back to bed. Do _not_ make me repeat myself.” Her guardian turned and stormed from the room, his limp scarcely slowing his progress. Nearly breathless with fury, Belle stood in the library debating a moment longer. At last, her mind made up, she went to her room but did not go to bed; she sat in a chair near her hearth, fairly vibrating with nervous energy.

After half an hour or so she heard Mr. Gold’s distinctive uneven step in the hallway. A door down the hallway closed firmly, and silence reigned in the hall. Her heart in her throat, Belle rose from her chair, belted her dressing gown firmly around her, and slipped silently out of her door. She stole into the pantry and took down the ring of keys that hung there when Mrs. Potts was asleep; Belle had been sent to fetch a bottle of wine for the previous day’s dinner and knew exactly which key would free Mr. Gold’s prisoner. Listening at every turn for Mr. Dove - surely Gold would have him stand sentry - Belle made her way to the wine cellar, which was surprisingly unguarded. Could her guardian have underestimated her so severely?

Belle wasted no time in unlocking the door. The man inside gaped at her.

“Miss? What are you…?”

“Shh! I’m letting you go,” she whispered. “You made a mistake, but not one you should be hanged or mutilated for. You won’t break in again, now that you know the house is occupied, will you?”

“Of course not,” the man groaned, rising to his feet. “But you...he’ll be furious with you.”

Belle shrugged. “I’ll stand up to him; I’ve done it before, after all.”

When he appeared ready to leave, Belle, looked out to make sure they were not about to be caught.

“Go on, then,” she whispered. “I need to lock the door and put the key away, but you should waste no time.”

“You are an angel, my lady,” he sighed. “May God protect you from that old beast’s wrath.”

Belle shook her head with a smile, and the man darted off. Belle waited a moment to be sure he was safely away, and then locked the door and returned the key ring to its place in the pantry. There was no sense in being scared _now_ of what the morning would bring. Her intentions had been noble, and Mr. Gold would never actually harm her, she was sure of that. She hurried as softly as she could back up the stairs and into her bedroom, and turned the lock. No matter what happened the next day, she would sleep easier tonight.

* * *

Gold awoke the next morning after a fitful sleep, his little ward’s accusing eyes and disapproving tone having proved more problematic than he’d thought they could be. He fought a twinge of uncertainty. After all, this was _his_ house. He owned all that was in it, and he would prosecute anyone who sought to steal from him. No amount of pleading or weeping from a soft-hearted female would change his mind.

He wrote a letter to the magistrate, determined to have the whole unpleasant business completed before breakfast. Tapping the envelope against his fingers, he made his way down to the wine cellar to be sure everything was as it should be. When he stood before the door, though, he could sense that something was wrong. He didn’t expect to hear shouting or weeping, but not a single sound - not even the shuffle of a shoe - could be heard within. Suspiciously he unlocked the door and swung it wide.

The room was empty.

The thief had escaped.

But wait...the door was not forced, and there were no windows in this cellar. The thief hadn’t escaped - he’d been _set free_.

And Gold knew exactly which headstrong, foolish, meddlesome female was to blame.

* * *

 

_“Bella!”_

At work brushing the grate of the hearth in the drawing room, Belle started. Mr. Gold had never yet called her by her Christian name, and he had certainly not raised his voice to her. He stormed into the drawing room, fury rolling off him in waves, and it took all her courage to stand and face him, her hands clasped demurely before her.

“Yes, Mr. Gold?”

“Where is he?” her guardian roared.

“Oh, the thief? I let him go.”

“You...you let him go?” Gold gaped at his ward, the audacity of her confession nearly robbing him of language. “You let him go! Against my instructions, my wishes, and my authority!”

“Your instructions were wrong, your wishes faulty. And as for your authority…” Belle quailed a little, then rallied. “You must act as you see fit, but I would far rather have my allowance revoked than countenance such injustice.”

“Injustice? He was a _thief!_ ”

“He made a mistake! He left immediately, and he won’t make that same mistake again!”

“Mr. Gold, sir!”

Mr. Gold blinked and appeared to realize that the two of them were standing nearly toe to toe, their faces mere inches apart. He backed away hastily, stumbling a little, and turned to glare at Mrs. Potts. “What?”

“The silver! All the silver in the china hutch is gone!”

Mr. Gold turned furious eyes on Belle and she swallowed a squeak of fear. “A mistake, was it? Never again, will he?”

“He...he…” Belle swallowed, tears forming in her eyes. “He must be a very desperate man. We don’t know why he needed to steal!”

“He needed to steal because he wanted _money_ , Miss French,” Gold snapped. “That is the only reason people steal.” He turned and stormed away from her.

“Where are you going?”

“To get my things back.”

Belle hurried after him. “I’m coming with you. You won’t kill him if I am there.”

“Oh, won’t I? That would be a fitting punishment for you, wouldn’t it? Watching the life squeezed out of him and knowing that it was your fault.”

He wouldn’t. Belle knew he wouldn’t. At least...she thought he wouldn’t. Would he? She ran after him to the stables.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle and Gold hunt down the thief and make a few surprising discoveries.

Gold grit his teeth, willing his face not to betray the worst of the pain. Riding a horse was excruciating with his lame foot, but there had been no time to hitch up the horses and he was determined not to give the thief anymore of a head start than he already had. Inquiries had determined that a man had been seen running on this road very early in the morning, and Gold kept an eye out for any signs of his straying from the path. So far, there were none.

“Are you well?”

His ward sounded annoyingly concerned for him and he cursed her observant eyes. No, he bloody well  _ wasn’t _ well, not by a long way, and it was all her fault.

“Of course not,” he snapped.

“You could do permanent damage to yourself,” she said plaintively. “We should turn back, never mind the silver. It isn’t as if you can’t afford to buy more.”

“Not the  _ point _ , dearie,” he snarled.

She fell silent and they neared the village, the thatched roofs of the cottages coming into view. Somewhere in that village would be a merchant or trader who would buy the valuable silver from the thief and give him the coin he obviously craved. Surely their search would come to an end soon.

“Why are you so bent on this?” she asked after a few moments. “He stole the silver  _ after _ I let him go, risking recapture and harsher punishment. Does that not seem the act of a desperate man to you?”

“A foolish man, perhaps.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her turn to look at him, her gaze piercing. “You have never known desperation? The uncertainty of not knowing where your next meal was coming from? Whether you would be able to sleep safely not? Whether a loved one would die of an illness for lack of proper medicine?”

“If I had, I would not steal to make up the lack.”

“If you haven’t, you don’t know what you would do.”

“Och, and I suppose  _ you _ do.” Gold brought his horse to an abrupt stop and turned to face his ward. “Pampered little noblewoman with the world at her feet. What do you know of pain and hunger and suffering? You, who have spent your whole life being waited on and petted and worshiped? On your twenty-first birthday you’ll inherit more money than these people will see in their lifetimes, and you dare to lecture me about poverty?”

Belle’s face was pale, her eyes icy and her lips a thin line. “You know nothing about me.”

“Well, and whose fault is that?”

“Yours. You’ve never asked me. You’ve assumed.”

He opened his mouth to reply but found he had no answer. She was, annoyingly, right. He  _ had  _ assumed. But he was right, wasn’t he? Hadn’t she told him herself that she’d grown up alongside Sir Gregory? He was every inch the privileged nobleman. And her books alone were worth a fortune.

But she had nightmares that drove her from her sleep and sent her into fainting fits at the sound of her own name.

“Good morning, sir. My lady.” The unctuous greeting had both of them turning to look at the speaker. A tall, powerfully-built man had approached them, his arrogant bearing assuring them of his importance. “I’d heard we had new neighbors at Blackhall. But you, sir,” the man eyed Mr. Gold as he dismounted slowly from his horse, “you are not a stranger. Mr. Gold, isn’t it?”

“My reputation precedes me.”

“Oh, yes indeed.” The man smiled and Gold held back a sneer.

“Then you have the advantage of me.”

“Keith Nott, Mr. Gold, at your service.”

“Nott. Aren’t you the magistrate?” The family owned an estate nearby, Gold was sure. Not a particularly old family, but well enough connected to merit authority.

“I am.”

“Excellent. I was robbed last night by a thief, and I have reason to believe he’s in the village and will sell my belongings. Do keep an eye out for a large amount of silver.”

“Silver, is it? I’ve heard about some silver pieces being sold here in town.” Nott studied his fingernails with affected unconcern. “I could point you in the right direction.”

“It’s your job to apprehend him, isn’t it?” Gold stared at him in disbelief.

“Oh, no, not at all. My job is to try and sentence, not apprehend. Though I could be persuaded to put in a little extra effort. For a price.”

His ankle protested mightily, and Gold was more than willing to pay to have someone else traipse around looking for the thief. “How much?”

“Oh, I don’t need gold,” the man waved a hand. “My family does well enough. I do, however, find myself a bit  _ lonely _ .” He looked significantly beyond Gold’s left shoulder. Turning to follow Nott’s line of sight, he saw that the man was staring directly at his ward. Clad as she was in a plain black gown that was stained from work, her face a bit drawn with lack of sleep and her hair in a very simple knot, she looked like a particularly dowdy scullery maid, and Gold felt his stomach clench. “Good company is so hard to find,” Nott said pointedly.

“You appear to be under a misapprehension,” Gold said coldly, tightening his grip on his cane. “The lady is not to be bartered.”

“To let, then? For an hour or so? Surely you can do without her for that long.”

Gold changed his grip on his cane so that he grasped it in the middle, the curved golden handle drawing level with the man’s head. Nott’s eyes widened and he backed away a step or two. “The  _ lady _ is my ward, Mr. Nott, and I find your language exceedingly disrespectful. Let’s start over, shall we? Thief. Silver. Does any of that sound familiar?”

Nott glared at him. “Robin Fitzooth was at the grocer’s a few moments ago with an impressive set of candlesticks. Don’t know where he was headed after that.”

“Is he still wearing that ridiculous green cloak?”

“Never goes anywhere without it.” Nott snorted. “Fancies himself a kind of Robin Hood.”

* * *

They tracked Mr. Fitzooth to the apothecary and Belle’s breath hitched when she saw the familiar green cloak. Mr. Gold tugged her arm so that they were standing to one side of the open door, privy to the conversation inside. 

“I cannot promise a full recovery, mind you,” the apothecary said. “Her condition is serious, and there is considerable risk to the child.”

“More risk than continuing as she is?”

“No, decidedly not.”

There was a loud clatter as, Belle presumed, the thief emptied the bag of silver. “Is this enough?”

“More than enough, Robin, for heaven’s sake,” the apothecary sighed. “What have you been doing?”

“What I needed to do to save my wife and child. The medicine, if you please.”

“You see?” Belle whispered, turning her gaze up to her guardian, who looked a little pale. “I knew he was a desperate man. He is trying to save the woman he loves!”

“Doesn’t justify stealing,” Gold muttered, but his words lacked conviction.

“Oh? What ought he to have done? Knocked on the door and begged for help? You know very well he would have been turned away.”

Gold’s jaw clenched.

“A spoonful twice daily,” the apothecary was saying. “No more than that, and the doses must be regular.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Fitzooth said earnestly. His footsteps drew near the door.

“Please don’t do this,” Belle whispered as Mr. Gold’s fingers flexed on the handle of his cane. “Please leave him be!”

Ignoring her, Mr. Gold stepped into the doorway just as Mr. Fitzooth reached it. He was studying the bottle in his hand, a look of intense concentration on his face, and did not notice the smaller man until he was nearly upon him.

“Oh, forgive me, I…”

Fitzooth’s face went slack and his fingers twitched. The bottle of medicine slipped from his grip, but Mr. Gold reached out and caught it.

“Well, well. What a coincidence,” Mr. Gold said softly. “Mr. Fitzooth, is it?”

“I...I…” The man had turned pale as a ghost and his voice trembled. “Please, I…”

“My silver cabinet is a bit on the empty side, dearie,” Mr. Gold interrupted, his voice even softer. Belle shivered. “Would you know anything about that?”

“Please, sir, my wife...you don’t understand, sir. She’s ill and I’ve been out of work since Nott turned us out.”

Gold’s brows drew together. “Nott?”

“We worked at Sherwood. I was a footman, Marian an upper housemaid. He...that is to say...well, she was offered a...different position. One she refused. The next thing we knew we were escorted from the grounds.”

Belle’s hand flew to her mouth and she saw Gold’s shoulders tense. “You were married at the time?”

“Yes, sir.”

Gold’s lips thinned. “Poverty and desperation do not excuse thievery, Mr. Fitzooth.”

The man swallowed thickly. “Sir...I planned to pay you back, every cent, but…”

“Then that is what you will do,” Gold said sharply. “I happen to be in need of both a footman and a maid.”

Belle turned her head to look at him so quickly she nearly stumbled.

“Marian cannot work, sir,” Mr. Fitzooth protested. “She’s with child and very...very ill.”

“Then she will begin when she is recovered.”

“I…” Fitzooth looked as if he thought he was dreaming. “I stole your silver and you offer me... _ employment _ ?”

“A percentage of your wages will be docked each month until you have recovered the price of the silver,” Gold said impatiently. “Two days off per month, a week’s holiday per year.”

Fitzooth’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

“Well? Do we have a deal? Or do I deliver you to Nott?”

“No! Yes! I...We...Deal.”

“Come to Blackhall tomorrow morning. You and your wife will move into the household when it is safe to do so.”

“Yes.” Fitzooth still sounded dazed. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me. This isn’t charity, it’s a job. One you will perform satisfactorily or you will be back where you started.”

“Of course.” Mr. Fitzooth shook his head as if to clear it, looked as if he was considering offering his hand but thought better of it, and then turned to walk away.

“Fitzooth!”

He froze and then turned, his eyes wary. Mr. Gold held out the bottle Fitzooth had nearly dropped. Relief washed over his face and he hurried forward, took the bottle from Gold’s outstretched hand, and ran off down the street, his cloak billowing behind him.

* * *

Gold could feel Bella’s eyes upon him, scorching the back of his head with their intensity. “Go back to the horses,” he said without turning. “No need to linger here any longer.”

“You spared him.” Her voice was ringing with pride and he tried very hard not to be affected by it. No one had ever been proud of him before.

“He owes me a tremendous debt. He’ll have to work for me well over two years before he’s paid me back in full.”

“You could have demanded he repay you immediately. Thrown him to the magistrate. But instead you gave him a position.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “You  _ do _ have some compassion in you, after all.”

“Did I or did I not tell you to go back to the horses?” he sighed.

“You are a good man, Mr. Gold, and if you’re trying to convince me otherwise, you are doing a very poor job of it.”

“Well, if you won’t go back to the horses, I suppose you’ll have to...walk.” He had turned to look at her and found her much closer than he had anticipated, and oh, he had underestimated the warmth in her eyes. They were positively  _ glowing _ . He stood frozen under her gaze for a few seconds, and then her lips curved in a small smile and, without giving him time to react, placed her hands on his shoulders and reached up to press a short, chaste kiss to his cheek. When he merely stared mutely at her in response, her smile widened and she turned to walk away. He stood rooted to the ground a second or two too long, and she turned to look at him over her shoulder.

“Aren’t you coming?”

With a tiny shake of his head he followed her, his fingers gripping his cane in an effort to resist the temptation to touch his face where her soft mouth had touched his skin. Despite his best intentions, he felt a smile tug at his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Robin and Marian should add an interesting dynamic to the household. I've always wanted a little more of a friendship between Belle and Robin, so that'll be fun!
> 
> What secrets do you think Belle is hiding?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle makes a couple of interesting discoveries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't updated this in awhile, but it's still firmly in my "will be finished I swear it" pile.

“You’ve dusted that table twice.”

Belle glanced up from her book to look at her guardian as he sat at the desk, his attention ostensibly engrossed with the accounts books.

“Hm?”

“The table. Twice.”

“Oh.” Belle smiled sheepishly and lifted the book so that he could see it. “Tricky translation.”

“Latin?”

“Greek.”

“Hmph.” Mr. Gold looked back down at his ledger, the corners of his mouth twitching. “At least I know not a speck of dust will gather on any of my books.”

Belle giggled and closed the book. Since their adventure in town there had been a softness about him that definitely hadn’t been there before. He growled less, or at least with less ferocity, and now and then she caught a genuine smile peeking out timidly from behind his grim mask. He still occasionally watched her as if she were a particularly puzzling cipher, but now when she caught him he would look sheepish instead of fierce, turn his head instead of snarl.

It was almost as if he liked her.

Blushing at the thought, Belle plied her duster a little too vigorously and knocked a figurine to the ground. When she straightened from picking it up, she saw Mr. Gold’s eyes snap back to his ledger, his face reddening. Belle bit her lip to hide a smile and returned to her task, moving ever closer to his desk. He refused to look up even when she brushed past his chair to dust the shelves behind him, but a peek over his shoulder revealed his fingers tapping nervously on the desk beside the book. Quietly Belle moved to stand directly at his back.

“Having trouble with a sum?” she asked, smothering a giggle when he started.

“Of course not,” he snapped.

“Are you certain? You’ve been staring at that page for five minutes.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Just being thorough.”

Belle hummed, studying the back of his head. He really did have lovely hair, brown streaked with silver, wavy and long enough to brush the shoulders of his coat. Belle’s fingers itched to discover if it was as soft as it looked. Reluctantly she walked out from behind the chair. Everything in the room had been dusted, and there was no reason for her to linger any longer.

“I’m to sort through some of the upper rooms today,” she told him.

He merely grunted in response.

“I suppose I’ll see you for tea.”

“Yes, very well.” He did not look up as she left.

* * *

Robin had been a godsend. It had become immediately apparent that he was to be a man-of-all-work rather than a real footman, but he appeared to think no task beneath him. He fetched and carried for Mrs. Potts, cared for the horses and cleaned the stables, and this afternoon he was to accompany Belle to some of the upper rooms to assist in removing heavier items.

Much of the furniture, though old-fashioned, was in good condition, and Belle made a note to come back and clean at a later date. In one suite of rooms near the front of the house, though, Belle was stymied.

The first bedroom was comfortably, if plainly, appointed, with a door connecting it to a sitting room. The furniture here was likewise plain and serviceable, and Belle would have found it unremarkable save for the spinning wheel sitting in one corner. Shoved into the corner as it was, as if to keep it out of the way, Belle expected to find it covered with dust and cobwebs, but it was clean and it moved soundlessly. A small basket of clean roving sat nearby. This wheel was still in use, but who in the house had the time and skill to spin? Belle turned the wheel slowly, mesmerized briefly by the soft whirr of the spokes.

“Should I move it, miss?” Robin asked, his eyes sweeping the room curiously.

“No, leave it be,” she decided. “Someone uses it.”

“Can’t think who,” he murmured, turning a piece of roving over in his hands.

Belle approached the door on the other side of the sitting room and peeked inside. If the spinning wheel had surprised her, that was nothing to what awaited her there: a nursery, furnished in the style of twenty or thirty years ago, complete with bassinet and armchair and toys, and a wardrobe filled with tiny clothes.

Whose could it have been? She knew Mr. Jones had had a son, but he was of an age with her guardian, so these things could not be his. The younger Mr. Jones, to the best of her knowledge, had never married, so they could not belong to any child of his, either. With a jolt Belle recalled that he had once described himself as a widower; was there a son, then? If so, who and where was he?

“A nursery!” Robin breathed. Belle started; she had forgotten him, lost in thought as she was. “What luck! The baby will come any day and Marian was afraid we would have nowhere for him to sleep.”

“Oh, Robin, I don’t know if…”

“What the devil are you doing in here?”

Belle and Robin spun to face Mr. Gold, who stood in the doorway with a thunderous frown on his face.

“I told you I was to look through the upper rooms today,” Belle reminded him a little peevishly.

“Not these. They are off-limits.”

“How was I to know?”

“I’ll just...er…” Robin edged around Mr. Gold, who scarcely seemed to notice him.

“Were they yours, or was there a son?” Belle asked when he was gone.

Gold’s face shuttered, his eyes dark. “There was... _ is _ ...a son.”

“Where is he?”

“Living his life far away from me, as he wished.”

“And...his mother?”

“You ask too many questions, dearie,” Gold snapped. “These rooms will remain as they are. If I find they have been disturbed in any way, I will hold you responsible. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Belle considered arguing with him, but his face looked etched in stone, and she had the sudden realization that he was acting out of pain, not anger. “Yes. Only…”

“What?”

“The baby will come any day and will have nowhere to sleep. I hoped…”

“I will buy them whatever they require. But no one is to set foot in these rooms again.” He turned and stormed from the room, leaving Belle with more questions than answers.

* * *

He was no longer used to the cold and rains of England; shivering, he pulled his coat more closely around him and glared up at the sky. The message had come late, but not too late. The old man  _ would _ be foolish enough to leave everything to the old crocodile, but he could scarcely be blamed. Gold was a crafty bastard, and had no doubt convinced the invalid to believe all manner of things.

The wind blew heavy raindrops into the room behind him as he threw open the door of the tavern. Throwing himself into a chair, he met the barman’s eye and motioned for a drink. When the bottle was placed before him, he drew out the message and read it over again. He had plenty of scores to settle with Gold, and this was just the most recent indignity. That trumped-up peasant elevated to landed gentry, enjoying riches and luxury that ought to be his! He was tempted to ride for Blackhall immediately and settle everything the old-fashioned way, but that was hardly a good start to his new life. Not to mention a terrible waste of the hard work that had ruined Gold in the eyes of more than his wife.

No, he could not simply ride up and saber the old beast, much as he would like to. He was on land again, and different rules applied. Besides, Cillian Jones was supposed to be dead.

Then again, so was Isabelle Desrosiers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUNNNNNNNNNN


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle has a bad day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D'Arque and Nott are nasty pieces of work and have threatened Belle. I decided to up the rating for that reason, but there's nothing explicit here.

“A single word,  _ mon amour _ . That is all it takes.”

Belle shivered on the cot, her gray dress providing her scant protection from the cold. D’Arque stood looming in the door, his shape long and monstrous, his face hidden in shadow. How long had she been in this horrible little room? And why could she not speak?

A word could save her mother, but she couldn’t speak it. She tried to clench her hands together but they were frozen in her lap and she could not move them. Her whole being was carved from stone.

“Say the word, beauty.” The monster loomed closer, his foul breath filling the room and suffocating her. “Say it.” His voice went higher and thinner. “Say it.” Her heart pounded as if it would burst through her chest. “Say it!” She tried to bring her hands to her ears to block out the awful shrieking of his voice.

_ “Say it!” _

Belle started awake, staring at the canopy of her bed, the shrill scream of D’Arque’s voice fading to the faint squeal of the tea kettle from the kitchens. Her limbs shook and her hair was damp, and she clenched her fists, the nails biting into the skin of her palms.

It was over. It was  _ over _ and she was so unspeakably tired of remembering how horribly she’d failed her mother.

God, why could it not be over?

Belle dressed and went to Sophie’s room to help her. She found Sophie struggling with the ties of her gown, and Belle sighed irritably.

“Why will you not wait for me, Sophie?” she asked, her voice sharp.

Sophie raised her eyebrows. “I am perfectly capable of dressing myself, Belle,” she pointed out. “I did so for years before now, you know.”

“And you are not growing younger,” Belle grumbled, taking the ties and setting herself to the task. “I wish you would let me do more. I wish you would let me  _ help _ you.”

“Belle…”

“Is it so much to ask that I be allowed to help? To do what little I can to aid you? I am not useless!”

“Belle..” Sophie gasped. “You’ve tied me too tightly.”

Her face burning, Belle loosened the ties and stepped back, passing one shaking hand over her face.

“Belle, love,” Sophie stepped forward and placed gentle hands on her shoulders. “What is it? What’s happened?”

Taking a deep breath, Belle shook her head and shrugged gently away from her friend. “Nothing. I’m well. I’m  _ well _ ,” she insisted over Sophie’s protests. “Excuse me, I have duties to attend to.”

Hurrying out of the room, Belle rushed down the hall to the kitchens. Mrs. Potts had prepared a tray for Marian, who would take to her bed any day, and Belle took it to the sitting room Robin and Marian used.

“Good morning,” she said, attempting a cheerful smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Well enough,” Marian said weakly from her position on the sofa.

“The medicine seems to have made you stronger.”

“It has. I actually look forward to having the baby so that I can work again.” She eyed the tray as Belle set it down. “Is that ham?”

“Yes! I know how much you wanted it yesterday, so I made sure to give you extra today.”

“Oh, Bella, that’s so sweet of you, but…”

Belle removed the cover from the tray and Marian turned a horrifying shade of green. Scrambling frantically for a bowl nearby, Marian emptied her stomach.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “The smell today...it’s unbearable.”

Irritation welled up inside Belle. “Well, I suppose the pigs would enjoy it. If we had any.” She set the cover back down with unnecessary force.

“I - I’m sorry. I’ve felt unwell all morning and…”

“That information would have been useful before I made your breakfast tray.” Belle stormed around the room, picking up pieces of laundry and tossing wood into the grate with a loud rattle.

Marian’s lips trembled. “Bella, I…”

“What is all this?” Robin poked his head into the sitting room, taking in Marian’s distressed countenance and Belle’s stormy frown. “Bella, what have you done to upset my wife?”

“It is  _ Miss French _ to the two of you,” Belle snapped. “I may dress like a servant and clean your grates, but I am still your superior, and you would do well to remember it!” Picking up the tray, she swept out of the room.

She went about her tasks that morning silently and quickly, unsurprised and unconcerned when both Sophie and Robin gave her a wide berth. She felt as if her anger had become liquid under her skin, bubbling and hissing and steaming and ready to erupt if someone so much as breathed in her direction.

Huffing under the weight of a basket of wet laundry, she struggled towards the door to the garden, perspiration dripping down from her bedraggled hair. She shoved the door open and turned to heft the basket through, and collided with something solid.

Mr. Gold grunted loudly when the basket connected with his midsection, and Belle gasped as the basket tumbled from her hands and upended on the floor.

“Dammit!” she exclaimed.

“Tut, tut, such language from a young lady,” Mr. Gold drawled, brushing imaginary lint from the front of his jacket. “Is that how all bluestockings express themselves?”

Belle righted the basket and began tossing the laundry back into it.

“I do hope those clothes will be washed again.”

Belle froze, glared at him, and then went back to work, muttering. “ _ Malum! Malus nequamque! _ ”

“My, my, and now disrespect for one’s guardian,” Gold said with a whistle.

Rising and fixing him with a look that should have turned his blood to ice, she spat, “ _ Pessime et nequissime! _ ” Turning on her heel, she stormed away, leaving the laundry on the floor.

The library was blessedly empty, and Belle paced the length of it, willing herself to be calm. She twisted her hands in front of her and took deep breaths, but her head was whirling and she felt as if she must do something drastic - scream or cry or  - or...her gaze fell on the decanter of whisky and the glass tumblers. Without stopping to think, she grabbed one of the tumblers and hurled it at the fireplace. The shattering of the glass was satisfying, but the look of horror on Mrs. Potts’s face when she ran into the study was not.

Something broke in her at that look. Belle rushed past the housekeeper, snatched her oldest cloak from the hook near the kitchen door, and dashed out into the sunlight.

* * *

She was not in the library, the kitchens, or the gardens. Wherever the girl had got to, she was determined not to be found. Gold was still a little flummoxed by her behavior that morning; while she had often defied him, she had always shown him at least a modicum of respect, and he wasn’t aware of having been overbearing enough in the last couple of days to merit her outburst. If anything, he’d found himself growing softer in his approach to her. He stood uncertainly in the hall outside of her chambers, wondering if he dared knock and risk her ire.

“Mr. Gold!” He looked to his right and saw Miss Hammond hurrying toward him. “Have you seen Bella?”

“Not since she dropped my clean laundry on the floor and cursed at me,” he said mildly.

“She did  _ what _ ?

“Have I been particularly beastly recently?”

“No, no...I’ve just left Marian, and she said Bella lost her temper with her this morning.”

“With Marian?” Gold frowned. “That seems unlikely.”

Miss Hammond clucked her tongue. “Bella is the kindest, gentlest soul, but sometimes - well, let us say that fear takes many forms, and Bella hates to feel afraid.”

“Where would she go?”

“I don’t know! If we were at home, she has a few favorite spots and I could find her easily, but here - she might be lost or injured, and I would not know where to look.”

“I’ll take Fitzooth and we will find her,” Gold reassured her. “She is on foot, so she can’t have gone far.”

“Oh, thank you, sir. I worry about her so.”

Gold did not want to add to her discomfort, but he worried as well. Fitzooth also looked grim when he explained their task.

"I know these woods well,” Fitzooth said, “but there are some unsavory characters who frequent the area, and they’ve grown bold with Mr. Jones’s illness and your absence, sir. We’d best pray we find her before they do.”

* * *

Belle felt her heartbeat slow and her blood cool as she walked aimlessly under the cool shade of the trees. Amidst the green and brown and blue, the red-hot flames of her fear and anger ebbed until they faded away entirely. She took deep breaths of the fresh, clean air and allowed a few tears to trickle down her cheeks.

There was nothing she could have done. Her father and Sophie had repeated those words until she agreed, and indeed she almost believed them. D’Arque was a monster, and he never would have kept his word, and she would have sold herself only to discover it had all been for naught. But doubt was her greatest enemy, and it poked and prodded with sharp-nailed fingers. What if he had actually loved her in his own dark and twisted way? What if she could have convinced him, flattered him into granting her wishes? Better still, what if she could have lured him into her bed and slipped a knife between his ribs?

What if she could have saved her mother if she’d only discovered the correct combination of words and actions? If she’d been  _ brave _ ?

The pounding of hooves brought her mind back to her surroundings and she looked up in time to see a man on a black horse ride up the path before her. She stepped to the side of the road to allow him room to pass, but he stopped when he drew near.

“Well, well,” the man drawled, “if it isn’t Mr. Gold’s pretty little ward.”

“Mr. Nott, isn’t it?” Belle asked, sweeping him a curtsey. “How do you do?”

“Better now, Miss French.  _ Much _ better.” He leapt from his saddle and stood before her, smiling. “The sight of a face like yours always lifts a man’s spirits.” He made a show of looking around them. “How did you come to be on my grounds? And all alone?”

“Oh! Have I strayed onto your property? I certainly did not mean to trespass.”

“It’s no matter,” Nott said, waving one hand, “but the hour does grow late. I was heading back for my dinner. Perhaps you’d like to accompany me?”

“That is very kind of you,” Belle said, her heart thrumming, “but I must return myself. Sophie will be concerned, and Mr. Gold cross.”

“Yes, I imagine that old beast isn’t very good company when you’ve crossed him, is he? Poor little beauty, holed up with that wretched old man all day.”

Anger flared in her, but the tone of his voice was dreadfully, blood-curdlingly familiar, and she must keep him calm until she could make her escape. “We all have our own burdens to bear,” she said coolly. “Mine is not so terrible.”

“Well, if you won’t dine with me and my mother, may I at least escort you home? We’re quite close to Sherwood and I could drive you. Or,” he held up a hand when she began to protest, “if you prefer, I could...mount you.”

Belle’s heart stopped in her chest.

“On one of my mares. We have some of the best stables in the country.” The gleam in his eye told her that he knew she’d caught his double _entendre_ , and he delighted in her discomfort. His eyes raked over her. “You look as if you’d have a good seat. A strong, strapping rider, I’ve no doubt.”

“You’re very kind,” Belle ground out, “but I would much rather walk.”

“Then allow me to see you home.” He stepped forward and took her arm.

“There’s no need,” she said, twisting in such a way that his grip broke. “I wouldn’t want to make you late for your dinner.”

“Don’t worry about that, dear. I find I’ve no appetite for food at the moment.”

He stepped forward again and Belle turned to run from him, but she was not quick enough. He snagged her arm and spun her about to face him, and fury blinded her. She heard a shout.

* * *

The shout sent a shiver through Gold’s bones, and he and Fitzooth urged their horses into a gallop.

“That was not a woman’s scream, sir,” Fitzooth called as they tore up the path. “What do you think…”

He stopped abruptly as they rounded the corner, both horses skidding to a stop. Keith Nott lay in the middle of the path, curled into a ball, and Belle loomed over him, her face hard and blazing with rage, her eyes flashing and her hair tousled. She held something small and gleaming in one hand, and when one of the horses nickered her glare snapped up to encompass them both. Her hand flew up and Gold realized with a jolt that he was staring down the barrel of a small pistol.

“Bloody hell,” Fitzooth breathed, and Gold raised his hands.

“Bella, it is only I,” he said in a low voice. “Robin and I came to find you.”

Her hand did not tremble as she lowered the weapon and trained it on Nott’s head. “Why?” she asked.

“We, er, wanted to help you,” Robin said.

“I don’t need your help.”

“Well, we can see that,” Gold murmured. He cautiously rode a little closer. “Leave him, sweetheart. He will not trouble you again, that much is clear.”

“No, I suppose he won’t,” Bella said calmly, and the icy fire in her eyes abated somewhat. She released the hammer of the pistol and knelt, twitching her skirts up to reveal a small holster on the outside of her boot. Sliding the pistol home, she stood and shook her skirts out. When she looked up, her face grew puzzled and Gold realized he was gaping at her.

“Papa made it for me,” she explained, “and taught me to shoot. Not,” she said derisively, “that this target would have presented much of a challenge.”

“Miss Hammond is sick with worry for you,” he said, filing that inexplicably attractive image away for another time. “Are you ready to return?”

Bella studied Nott, who was still wheezing and whimpering. With great deliberation, she aimed a last hard kick at his midsection, and then stepped daintily over him to approach Gold’s horse. “May I ride before you?” she asked. “I find I’m weary of walking.”

Wordlessly he offered her a hand, and she stepped on his boot and swung herself effortlessly up to sit sideways in front of him, and oh, she was much, much too close. Her hair tickled his chin, her breath fluttered against his cravat, and her hands were warm at his sides where she clung for balance. He swallowed around a suddenly dry throat and urged his horse to a walk; he ignored Fitzooth’s sparkling eyes and concentrated on the reins in his hands and the road before him.

“I apologize for this morning,” she said suddenly, and he started. He’d hoped they could ride to the house in silence; pretending to be unaffected by her proximity was taking every last scrap of his concentration. “I awoke feeling out of sorts and I’m afraid I wasn’t quite myself.”

“It’s no matter.”

“It is. You and Sophie and Robin and Marian are dear to me, and I hate to think that I treated any of you badly. Will you forgive me?”

“Of course, dearie.”

She was blessedly silent for the remainder of their short journey, but when he had helped her down and dismounted himself, she grasped the sleeve of his jacket and he was powerless to resist. He looked down to meet her serious gaze and clenched his jaw. He could  _ feel _ the pull of those eyes on his soul. 

Quick as a flash, she swooped up to kiss his cheek. “Thank you for coming to rescue me.”

“You didn’t need to be rescued.”

“True, but thank you all the same.”

He sighed and took her hand, tucking it into the crook of his arm as he led her into the house. “You’re welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few more hints about Belle's past, and a slight reworking of the "Belle gets attacked by wolves/Belle is kidnapped" moments in BatB and OUaT.
> 
> Yes, Gold did just call her "sweetheart" without either of them fully realizing it. I bet Robin picked up on it, though.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackhall gets a visitor and Belle learns a little about her guardian's history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, hi, hello, can't believe I actually managed to update this story, go me! Hope you enjoy!

Belle paused over the washing and brushed her hair off her brow with one arm. The summer heat made this task unpleasant, but she took pride in her work. She was now able to keep herself and the others in clothes that were clean and well-pressed, and she had even learned not to starch linens and handkerchiefs until they were stiff enough to stand on their own. In particular, she liked to see Mr. Gold wearing clothes she had washed and mended herself; there was an intimacy in that, in having handled garments that touched his skin, and while Robin took care of his most private clothing, _she_ was responsible for the snow white of his shirts and the spotless quality of his coats.

Robin came into the laundry just then with a basket of linen and grinned at her. “Lovely weather we’re having.”

“Oh, yes,” Belle huffed, “perfect if one wants to die of heat.”

“You must have brought the sunshine with you. We haven’t had so fine a summer in this part of the country in years.”

Belle laughed and began twisting the clothes to wring them dry, dropping them in the basket when she could wring no more water from them. Her hands, red and chapped from the lye, stung, but they were stronger now than they’d been a month ago, and she was prouder of them than she had been when they were white and soft. Robin began heating water for his own laundry.

“I daresay Mr. Gold agrees,” Robin said casually, and Belle’s head snapped around.

“Pardon?”

“That you brought the sunshine with you. Lord knows he lights up bright enough when you enter a room.”

Blushing, Belle returned to her work. “Don’t be absurd.”

They worked in silence for a few moments, Robin rocking a bit on his heels as he waited for his water to heat.

“Has he been your guardian long?”

“No, and he won’t remain so for long either. When I come of age I will come into my fortune, and I won’t need his protection any longer.”

“When will that be?”

Belle grimaced. “March.”

Robin laughed. “Bella, it’s only July. You have nine more months of his guardianship. Provided you don’t marry first, of course.”

Shaking her head, Belle left the washtub and moved her basket aside so that Robin could empty the tub and refill it with hot water. “I don’t plan to marry, at least not for any reason but love. Can you think of many young men who would love a bluestocking with red hands and a pistol strapped to her ankle? Even a fortune can only take me so far.”

“Not many _young_ men, no. Young men are notoriously foolish creatures.”

Belle laughed and lifted her basket, turning for the door.

“However, young men are not the only men at your disposal.”

Surprised, she faltered, nearly losing her grip on the basket. “What? What do you mean by that?”

Robin shrugged and tipped the hot water from his kettle into the basin. “Only that, perhaps, an _older_ man - say, one who appreciates a well-read, independent lady - might be a better match for you.”

“Well, if you ever meet such a man, you are welcome to introduce us,” Belle said haughtily.

The laundry door opened at that moment and Mr. Gold looked in. “Fitzooth, do you have my…”

“Yes, sir, all here,” Robin said cheerily. “I was only waiting for Bella to finish.”

Gold’s eyes flicked to where Belle was standing by the garden door and the lines of his face softened. “Ah. Good morning, Bella.”

“Good morning, Mr. Gold.” Belle was grateful that the laundry was so warm that any change in her color could be attributed to the heat. If their adventure chasing after Robin had softened him, his demeanor after her encounter with Nott had become downright warm, and Belle was not sure what it meant.

“Do you, ah, need…” he indicated the door, and Belle nodded, deliberately ignoring Robin’s wide smile as Mr. Gold crossed the room and opened the door, gesturing her through. She murmured her thanks and escaped into the warm, fresh air, her cheeks still hot.

As she hung their clothes on the line, Belle tried to determine why she felt so out of sorts. She had considered her guardian attractive from the first, and the air of mystery that hung about him intrigued her. In the month since, she had learned a great deal about him, but she was still no closer to discovering why the people in and around Blackhall hated him so. He was prickly and overbearing, but he was not cruel. He could be demanding and exacting, but kind, gentle Robin appeared perfectly content in his role as valet and general man-of-all-work, and never had an unkind word to say about his employer. Furthermore, Gold had never given her reason to fear for her safety or her virtue, so Mrs. Potts’s claim that he was a lecher made even less sense than the rest.

Pinning the last shirt to the line, Belle let out a huff of frustration. If he would only _talk_ to her about things other than her studies and the books she was reading, she could perhaps learn more, but he shied away from discussing anything personal. However, he _had_ been slightly more forthcoming that night in the library. Perhaps darkness and whiskey made him more comfortable, and another late-night rendezvous was in order if she were ever to discover the truth.

Best to keep that little plan secret until it had come to fruition, Belle decided. If Sophie discovered that she was planning to corner a man in a library in the dead of night and partake of liquor with him until he spilled his secrets, she would lock her in her room and throw away the key.

* * *

Gold realized he had been standing by the garden door a little too long when he heard Fitzooth clear his throat. Stepping back in and letting the door swing shut, Gold tried to leave the laundry without further incident, but Fitzooth’s voice brought him up short.

“She’s a remarkable lady, our Miss French.”

Fitzooth was always careful to refer to Bella as “Miss French” before Gold, although Gold knew that Bella had invited everyone in the house to call her by her Christian name. It was an oddity that had rendered Mrs. Potts nearly speechless and caused Dove to blush to the top of his bald head. If she were otherwise utterly uninteresting, Bella’s penchant for flouting convention and etiquette would have endeared her to him. As it was, she combined that disregard for polite restraint with ready wit, keen intelligence, and bottomless compassion, and he enjoyed her company far too much.

“I daresay she won’t have much trouble finding a husband, for all she’s a little odd.”

Gold’s jaw clenched and he tried once again to leave the room.

“Of course, she does not necessarily _need_ a husband, but London is a big city. Who’s to say she won’t meet someone able to appreciate her unique qualities? I think it’s more than likely.”

Turning cold eyes on Fitzooth, Gold asked, “Do you always gossip about your employers like a fishwife?”

Grinning, Fitzooth shrugged and scrubbed at the laundry once more. “Conversation is scarce around here, sir. Until Mrs. Potts can find more servants, I’m afraid I’ll have to take what I can get.”

Rolling his eyes, Gold left the laundry, determined to give neither Bella nor Fitzooth another thought until forced to do so. He was crossing the vestibule, determined to go over the accounts in the library, when the bell rang. For a moment he stood in the hall in indecision, but Mrs. Potts had gone to town, and Bella and Fitzooth were evidently otherwise occupied. Sighing, he went to the door and opened it himself. When he saw his visitor, he felt his draw drop.

“Bae?”

The young man stared back, equally flummoxed. “Papa?”

“What are you doing here, son?” Gold asked.

“You wrote to me that you would be here for the summer.” Baeden stepped inside and looked around the empty hall. “Where is everyone?”

“Gone, all except Mrs. Potts, Dove, and a few new additions.”

Bae stared at him, a frown line etched between his eye. “What did you…?”

“Nothing,” Gold growled. “They were gone before I arrived.”

Realization dawned on his son’s face, and he dropped his gaze.

“Why are you here, Bae?” Fear suddenly gripped his heart. “Is it Emma? Is something the matter?”

“No, no, Emma’s quite well, though she is thoroughly tired of her situation.” Baeden smiled. “She says she can’t wait to get a real night’s sleep again.”

Relaxing, Gold led his boy into the drawing room, where Miss Hammond sat mending. She stared when they entered and pushed her work to one side, out of sight. “Mr. Gold! I heard the bell, but we have so little company…”

“No matter,” he said. “Miss Hammond, this is my son, Mr. Baeden Gold. Bae, Miss Hammond.”

Bae looked more puzzled than ever, but he shook Miss Hammond’s hand. The lady took pity on him and, when he had taken a seat, said, “I am companion and friend to Mr. Gold’s ward, Miss French.”

“You have a _ward_ , Papa? You didn’t mention…”

“A recent acquisition. Jones was her guardian for only a week, and because I was his sole heir, the charge fell to me.”

Baeden smiled again, more warmly. “You, the guardian of a young lady? That must be interesting.”

“Oh, it is,” Miss Hammond agreed. “They’re at odds half the time, and talking about heaven knows what the other half.” She seemed to relax, pulling out one of the stockings she’d been darning. “At supper last night they spoke a great deal of the time in Latin.”

“You’ve met someone who loves that dead language as much as you do?” Bae laughed. “Is the girl here? I’d like to meet her.”

“She is, and you’ll meet her at dinner. That is, if you’re staying. Are you staying, Bae?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t leave now for the world.”

* * *

Belle hurried down the hall. The ironing had taken more time than she’d expected, and she was dangerously close to being late for dinner. News of the arrival had reached her - Marian had mentioned it, as had Robin and Mrs. Potts - but she had yet to meet Mr. Baeden Gold herself, for which she was thankful. She’d rushed to dress properly, and perhaps her hair was not done as neatly as it could be, and she knew her dress was not in the first stare of fashion, but at least she wouldn’t look the kitchen drudge. She was not ashamed of the work she did at Blackhall, for she liked to know that she was contributing, but she wanted Mr. Baeden to think well of her.

Exactly _why_ it was important that she make a good impression she would have been hard-pressed to explain.

Her steps slowed a bit as she neared the dining room, and as she turned the final corner, she collided hard with something warm and firm. Hands cupped her elbows and steadied her, and she looked up into familiar brown eyes set in a swarthy, good-looking face.

“Easy, miss,” he said, setting her carefully away from him. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m so sorry,” she breathed. “I didn’t want to be late, and…”

“I’m late, as well, nothing to apologize for,” the man said. He looked at her properly, his eyes going wide. “I’m sorry, but who are you?”

“Bella French. You must be Bae...Mr. Baeden.” Belle swept him a curtsey. “I’m…”

“My father’s ward?” He studied her for a moment, and then smiled. “You’re not quite what I expected.”

The clock in the hall chimed and Belle jumped. Baeden swept her a low bow and offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

Whatever Baeden’s reasons for visiting, Mr. Gold looked unwilling to question his presence. He smiled more readily and spoke more gently, and Belle felt herself growing even fonder of him, warmth suffusing her cheeks whenever he smiled her way. Baeden drew her out, asking about how she passed her time, her studies and pursuits, and telling stories from his time as a boy at Blackhall. He was personable and charming, and Belle found herself wondering why he would choose to stay in London, so far from the home of which he had so many happy memories.

“I don’t think Mrs. Potts has ever forgiven me for those stains,” Baeden chuckled as he concluded his story.

“Nonsense, Bae, Mrs. Potts would forgive you nearly anything,” Gold said dryly.

Belle smiled as she remembered the housekeeper’s face when she gushed about young Master Baeden finally returning. It was clear that whatever animosity she held for the elder Mr. Gold, that ill feeling did not extend to his son.

It was the most pleasant evening Belle had spent at Blackhall. She should have been pleased as they all sat in the drawing room smiling and chatting and drinking coffee, but instead questions to which she dared not give voice burned on her tongue, and she could scarcely keep her seat from agitation. Nor was she the only restless soul in the room. Although Mr. Gold spoke calmly and even smiled on occasion, she could see his fingers drumming restlessly on the handle of his cane and the occasional twitch of his mouth. At long last Sophie moved to go to bed, and Belle joined her, her heart thumping in her chest as she contemplated what she meant to do.

After changing into her nightgown and dressing gown, Belle hovered by her door, listening intently for footsteps. There were none, and she slipped out of the room and padded silently down the hall and the stairs to the library. Her steps slowed as she reached the heavy door and she saw a faint stream of light flickering from within. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped inside.

“Bella?” Mr. Gold was seated in the same armchair, a tumbler of whisky in his hand, his face covered in confusion. He half rose, concern flitting across his features. “Are you quite alright? Have you had another nightmare?”

“No,” she said quietly. The door closed with a soft click, and Mr. Gold looked wary, a muscle ticking in his jaw as his eyes swept over her. “I wanted...I hoped to speak to you.”

He swallowed visibly and stared at the glass in his hand. “Oh? About what?”

“Your son.”

* * *

Gold relaxed a little, but eyed her carefully. “Bae would be more than happy to answer any of your questions, dearie.”

“I don’t think he would,” Bella said thoughtfully. “At least, he probably would not answer them honestly.”

He felt a flare of anger. “You accuse him of falsehood?”

“No. I think he would try to shield me from the truth.” Bella stepped forward, uncowed by his glare, and poured herself a measure of whisky. “He is a very kind gentleman, very honorable and _chivalrous_. I’ve known men like him. They like to spare ladies’ delicate feelings.” She pronounced the last words as if they were the worst sort of insult, and Gold tried not to smile. Gracefully Bella lowered herself into the chair next to his and took a sip of her drink, her face pensive and almost sad.

“He speaks as if he had a very happy childhood here,” she said at last.

“I believe he did.”

“Why did he leave? Why do he and his wife not live here with you?”

Gold turned the glass in his hand and considered how much to tell her. “I’m a difficult man to love, dearie, and more difficult to live with. Baeden and his Emma had little choice but to distance themselves from me if they wanted any chance of a good life.”

“I’ve had no difficulties living with you,” Bella pointed out.

“Haven’t you? Don’t we quarrel on a near-daily basis?”

“Well - yes, but you aren’t quarrelsome with everyone. With Sophie you’re even rather gentlemanly.”

“ _‘Rather’_ gentlemanly! There’s a fine compliment,” Gold snorted.

Bella rolled her eyes heavenward. “You know what I meant. You only snarl at me because you know I don’t really mind it - and I can answer you back without fear. You’re often a prickly but you’re not cruel, and Mr. Baeden clearly loves you. What is the real reason?”

Gold sighed and tossed back the rest of his whisky, then rose to pour another measure. “You will not accept the easy answer, will you?” he asked.

“My Papa would roll over in his grave if ever I did.”

He chuckled at that and sat back in his chair, studying the amber liquid in his glass. Bella waited silently, patiently, and he had to admire her tenacity. Besides, though she was young and idealistic, he did not think she would betray him. Oddly, he felt that he could trust her. “My reputation in this town - in this part of the country, really - is...unsavory, to say the least, Bella,” he said at last.

“I know that,” she said with a little impatient wave of her hand. “Mrs. Potts was quite open about that the first morning.”

“Well, if you know, we needn’t have this conversation,” Gold snapped. “Surely she told you all - the brawls, the drunkenness, the lechery. What other explanation could there be, dearie? Don’t I look the part of an uncouth sinner?”

“Don’t growl at me,” Bella said firmly. “Reputations are often exaggerated, or even false. You haven’t been in your cups once since we arrived here, you’ve only ever physically attacked a man who was attempting to steal from you, and I’ve never feared for my virtue - or indeed, for my safety in any way. Not with you. Either you are a very inept sinner indeed, or the gossips have it wrong.”

He could not help staring at her as she defended him, her eyes flashing and her chin raised. When he did not respond she raised her eyebrows and he shook his head slowly before looking away and studying the carpet.

“I’m none of those things,” he said gruffly, “you are right about that, dearie. What I am, is something worse. I am a coward.”

“A coward?”

“Aye. Havenae you wondered how a Scot like me came tae inherit a fine Englishman’s manor house?” he asked, deliberately thickening his brogue. “We came here because we couldnae stay in our village - or in any village once my secret got out. Farther and farther south we came, ‘til the shame of my cowardice could nae longer follow us.”

“I don’t understand,” Bella said, leaning on the arm of her chair and studying his face. “What were you afraid of?”

“Leaving my wife unprotected, my boy without a father. This,” he gestured at his ruined ankle, “was a ploy tae keep me away from the fighting.”

“You injured yourself,” Bella whispered, “to avoid serving in the army?”

“Precisely.” He took a long drink and then sank further into the chair. “They couldnae prove it, or I’d have been shot. But everyone knew I hadn’t been thrown from a horse and trampled. Everyone knew.”

“I do so hate the word ‘coward,’” Bella grumbled, glaring into her drink. “What exactly is so brave about leaving your family without protection while you fight men with whom you have no quarrel? A true coward - a true coward fights someone who cannot fight back. A true coward protects herself at the expense of others.”

“What?” Bella clutched her glass with a trembling hand and raised it to her lips to drain it. He watched with some alarm as she reached for the decanter. “Bella, I don’t think…”

“You don’t have a reputation for cowardice in the village,” she said tartly as she poured another generous measure into her glass. “Why do they think you a beast?”

“Perhaps you should…”

“Have you ever caused someone you love harm in order to preserve your own dignity?” She took another long drink and he winced.

“No, I…”

“Have you sat in a room knowing that a word from you could end your loved one’s suffering and found yourself unable to utter it?” Another long drink.

“Bella…”

“Then what, Mr. Gold?” she snapped, standing up and swaying rather alarmingly on her feet. He rose and grasped her arms, steadying her. “What did you do that was so terrible? Why do they hate you?”

“Because Cillian Jones hated me.” His patience snapped and he bared his teeth. “He was cuckolding me and swindling his father, and he couldnae decide which he wanted more, so he tried tae do both. If he wanted tae inherit he couldnae run off with my wife, so he tried tae make _me_ leave, tae paint _me_ the libertine and the villain. He ran up debts in my name, paid his victims tae say I’d debauched them, did his level best to make life unbearable for me, but I knew him and Milah too well. I’d not leave Bae to their tender mercies. I stayed. I stayed and God help me I protected them, shielded them, but when I found out he was stealing from his own father I knew I had him.”

“What did you do?” Bella asked softly. Her hands were on his arms now and her thumbs were tracing soothing circles through the fabric of his sleeves.

“I told him he could stay and face his father, or he could leave. He chose to leave, but he took Milah with him. Their ship ran into a storm and they were both lost at sea.”

He had not loved Milah when she died, had not loved her for years, but her death had still come as a blow to him. With a sigh he sank back into his chair, startled when Bella followed him, kneeling at his feet, her hands now clutching his.

“Oh, dear,” she breathed. “But he - with him gone didn’t -”

“Didn’t the rumors stop? Oh, no,” he smiled grimly. “You see, Milah was so very unhappy with me. Dearest Cillian was only trying to help her escape me, and he was a sainted hero who died trying to free a lady from a beast.”

“So none of it is true,” Bella whispered.

“Some of it is,” he corrected her. “I _am_ strict with tenants and merchants, I _do_ drive a very hard bargain, I _never_ accept excuses or grant reprieves. I am not, by any measure, a nice man, Miss French.”

“Perhaps not,” she agreed, her eyes shining. “But I think you are a _good_ man.”

“You’d be the first.”

She shook her head slowly, her eyes locked on his, and he felt heavy, weighed down by her gaze. Her hands were warm and steady in his; he ran his thumb absently over the back of one of them and suddenly something shifted in her expression. Her lips parted ever so slightly and her breath quickened and he watched with wide eyes as she moved forward, her gaze flickering down to his mouth.

The chiming of the clock caused them both to start, and Gold pulled his hands from her grip and fell back into the chair. “Go to bed, Bella,” he said gruffly.

“I don’t want to,” she said, rising again.

He stood as well, slightly unnerved when she did not step back. Not for the first time in his life he wished he were taller. “It was not a request.”

Her teeth sank into her lower lip and her eyes swept over him from his eyes to the toes of his boots and back up again, leaving him feeling rather overwarm. His breath quickened and his heart pounded in his ears as she took the smallest of steps forward and the skirt of her nightgown brushed against his legs.

“Must I?” she whispered. “May I not stay here?”

“Yes. Ah - no. I mean…” He closed his eyes and stepped back in an attempt to break the spell she’d cast on him. “Please, Bella. Go.”

He heard her give a little huff of indignation, and then the warmth of her receded as she walked away. He opened his eyes in time to see her open the door of the library and toss one last heated glance over her shoulder. “This conversation is far from over, Mr. Gold,” she said sternly. She slipped out of the door and he let out a long, shuddering breath.

God in heaven, she would be the death of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robin totally ships it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baeden tries to talk sense to his father, and there is a new addition to the household.

Baeden Gold had never known his father in the company of women. His mother, once they had all been established at Blackhall, had paid Gold little attention, preferring the company of the younger, more dashing son of the house. Whatever love they’d felt for each other at the beginning of their marriage had faded very shortly after Baeden’s birth, and he rarely saw them together. The women of the house and the village steered clear of him, and Gold had always appeared so totally uninterested in the fairer sex that his son had never thought to see him infatuated.

There could be no other word for his behavior around Bella French, however.

The elder Gold could scarcely keep his eyes off his ward, to begin with. Baeden couldn’t blame him, of course, for she was certainly one of the fairest ladies he’d ever seen, and she did not appear averse to his father’s attention. _She_ watched  _ him _ fairly steadily as well, and it was amusing to observe them when they were in the same room, stealing glances but never quite meeting each other’s gaze.

She was also more than a match for his father conversationally. Baeden had received a good education at the insistence of old Mr. Jones and considered himself well-versed in many topics, but he simply could not keep up with his father and Miss French when they were on form. It seemed they could talk about  _ anything _ and for absurd lengths of time, and he felt terribly sorry for poor Miss Hammond, who must have felt rather superfluous before he arrived.

“Are they always like this?” he asked her one evening while Bella and his father argued the merits and flaws of a translation of some Latin text or other.

“They are,” Miss Hammond said with a gentle smile. “As long as Bella does not smile too brightly, of course.”

He was just about to ask her what she meant when Bella laughed at something his father had said, her smile brilliant and her eyes sparkling, and Gold descended into a sort of abashed silence, his face slightly redder than usual. “Ah,” Baeden said, “I see.”

He and Miss Hammond shared a look, and then the lady turned the subject.

“I understand your wife is in London?” she said.

“Yes, I promised her I would stay away only a few days. When Papa said he was coming here for the summer, I was...well, I was a bit concerned. He’s never been fond of Blackhall, and I was certain he would sell the place as soon as he could. I wanted to be certain that all was well.”

“Does she hail from this part of the country?”

“No, she is - well, she was a step above my reach, or so I thought.” Baeden smiled. “I met her in London under less than auspicious circumstances - we each thought the other a thief. The misunderstanding was cleared up, of course, but I was certain I would never see her again. The son of a steward, no matter how well provided for, would normally have little chance of impressing a high-born lady, but Emma - she is nothing if not unconventional.”

“The men of your family do seem to place little value on convention,” Miss Hammond said, glancing again at her charge’s shining face.

“I did not make her an offer,” Baeden confided. “She  _ declared _ that she would marry me at her very own birthday ball. I thought at the time that she was simply thumbing her nose at her parents and their preferred suitor, but...well, I was disabused of  _ that  _ idea fairly quickly.”

“Goodness.” Miss Hammond’s lips twitched. “She sounds a singular young lady. I pray you, do not tell that story to Bella - she may get ideas of her own.”

“Would that be so bad a thing?” Baeden glanced at his father. Bella had turned away to sort out something to do with her needlework, and the expression on the elder man’s face…

“Patience, Mr. Baeden,” Miss Hammond smiled. “If it is meant to be, it will be.”

That was all very well, but Baeden knew his father. Without encouragement he would stay silent forever, and Baeden had no intention of letting him waste this opportunity for happiness.

When the ladies had retired, Baeden poured them both a measure of whisky and waited while his father drank.

“She’s a lovely woman, Papa,” he said when the glass was nearly empty.

“Aye, she is. Intelligent, too.”

Baeden grinned. “You didn’t even ask me who I meant.”

Raising wide eyes to his son’s, Gold swallowed. “I...is there another young woman you could mean?”

“I didn’t say  _ young _ woman.” He tried not to laugh as his father’s face changed color, giving up the fight when Gold stammered that he had not heard the question correctly. Gold rolled his eyes and stared into his whisky as his son’s chuckles subsided.

“You’ve had your laugh,” he grumbled.

“If you admire her so much, you should tell her,” Baeden said with a conciliatory smile. “Ladies like to hear that sort of thing.”

“From handsome men their own age, perhaps,” Gold said. “Not from ugly old curmudgeons.”

Baeden raised his eyes heavenward and sighed. “Papa, she scarcely looked my way all evening. Poor Miss Hammond must suffer a great deal left to the tender mercies of you and Miss French.”

“Bae…”

“What has you so skittish of her?” Baeden poured himself another measure. “You’ve done it, Papa. You’ve won. Why not allow yourself to be happy again?”

His father was silent for a moment. Finally he took a drink and said, “She would be a distraction.”

“A distraction? From what?” Baeden waved his glass. “From loneliness? From misery? You have nothing further to gain!”

“Bae,” Gold sighed, “I’m still...I have yet to find him.”

“Jones?” Baeden sat back and stared, the glass tipping dangerously in his hand. “I thought - did he not die at sea with Mother?”

“It was reported that he did.”

“Then…”

“Her body was recovered. His never was.”

“Papa,” Baeden said slowly, “it is the  _ sea _ . After all these years, it’s highly unlikely…”

“There have been reports of someone matching his description appearing in ports for years,” Gold said sharply. “When I find him…”

“What? You will  _ what _ ?” Baeden set his glass down with a hard slap. “Clap him in irons? Burn him at the stake? What do you want?”

“I want him ruined,” Gold snapped. “And I want him to know that it was I who ruined him. He took  _ everything _ from me, Bae, you know that! My wife, my security, my reputation…”

“And now you have his house and his money. You could have a wife again, and with her by your side you could restore your reputation! This revenge is useless, Papa. Give it up.”

Staring morosely into the fire, Gold shook his head, and Baeden growled.

“If you persist in this, you will lose it all again, mark my words. And you will have no one to blame but yourself.” Tossing back the last of his whiskey, Baeden stormed from the room.

 

Gold could not blame Bae for his ire. The boy did not know the depths to which Jones had sunk, did not understand how very, very far he was from having recovered everything he had lost. As for marrying Bella - while it was true that she would be a distraction from his purpose, he did not have the courage to give voice to his real reasons.

There was something wrong with him, at his core. He did not know what it was, but no one man could be abandoned so much in his life without there being something rotten within him. Neither his mother nor his father had wanted him; the spinsters with whom he’d been raised had been kind, but they had apprenticed him at an early age. By the time his wife left him, he had understood the common thread running through his life: he was a man who could not be loved.

Chip adored him, but he was a child and would soon outgrow his bad taste. Baeden loved him now, but he had lived apart from him for years, having been sent to school as soon as possible, and Gold was careful to keep his own visits to London short. Bella - Bella was fond of him, he could not doubt that, but she had not known him long. Eventually - whether it were in a month or a year or a decade - she would see what everyone else saw, and he would be alone once more.

Better to be alone by choice than abandoned by those he loved.

He had just settled this point with himself when the library door swung open and Robin appeared, looking frantic.

“Mr. Gold!” he gasped. “It’s time!”

* * *

 

Belle stood outside the closed door of Marian and Robin’s rooms, her face red with anger. Mrs. Potts had taken one look at her, gasped in horror, and shoved her back out into the hall. “This is no place for a young maiden!” she had scolded before shutting the door firmly.

Clenching her hands at her sides, Belle considered her options. She could demand to be let into the room as the nominal lady of the house, but she doubted that argument would hold much weight with Mrs. Potts. She could plead with the midwife, but she rather thought that might be equally useless. She could appeal to Mr. Gold, but she knew that even he, scornful of convention though he was, would balk at such an assault on her sensibilities.

She turned and stormed away from the door and toward the library, thoughts and emotions whirling in her head. Marian was her friend, and surely at such a moment Marian needed her friend beside her. And she was so achingly  _ desperate _ to learn something about childbirth that she could not read in books…

Belle stopped just outside the library, her cheeks coloring with shame. What a very selfish thought to have, to wish to witness her friend in such an uncomfortable position merely for the sake of her own edification. Marian must be frightened and in pain, and what was most important was that the women currently in the room could help her. Belle admitted to herself that in such a situation she would certainly be useless.

The library was not empty. Mr. Gold, Sophie, and Baeden were keeping company with a very pale, very frightened Robin, who shot to his feet when she entered the room.

“Bella! Are you...is she…”

“As far as I know all is well,” Belle said soothingly, taking his hand in hers. “But they would not let me stay, you know. It isn’t done.”

“She was in such pain, and the...it hasn’t been easy,” Robin said, his voice shaking. “If she should fall ill…”

“Mrs. Potts is an experienced nurse, and the village midwife has an excellent reputation,” Mr. Gold said calmly. “Mrs. Fitzooth could not be in better hands.”

There was a long, loud wail from the direction of Robin’s quarters and he swayed alarmingly on the spot.

“I should be...I should be with her,” he said faintly. “She needs me…”

“She needs you to be strong and steady, and to trust her to do her work,” Gold said firmly. He glanced at Baeden, who also looked pale; belatedly, Belle remembered that his wife was with child. “Bae?”

“Pardon, Papa, but I...I think I need a walk.” Baeden hurried from the room, and Robin collapsed back into his chair.

“We so wanted a family,” he sighed. “Suppose…” He reached for the decanter of brandy, and Gold made no move to stop him. Sophie watched with an air of detached amusement, sharing glances with Mr. Gold every few moments.

Belle did not know how long they sat there in silence as poor Robin made slow but steady progress through the decanter. After what felt like hours the library door opened again and Robin looked up, his eyes wild.

“You have my congratulations, Mr. Fitzooth,” Mrs. Potts said with a smile. “You have a fine, healthy son.”

With a ragged sigh Robin fell back into the chair, his eyes squeezed shut as a few tears trickled from beneath the lids. “And...my wife...how is…?”

“She has not had an easy time of it, and she will require a great deal of rest, but she is doing as well as can be expected.” Mrs. Potts said gently. “Mrs. Lucas expects her to make a full recovery.”

“May I...may I…”

Gold took the younger man by the arm and helped him stumble into an upright position. “Go,” he said firmly. “Meet your son and thank your wife.”

“Congratulations, Mr. Fitzooth,” Sophie said quietly, standing from her chair.

Robin nodded, tears now coursing freely down his cheeks, and followed Mrs. Potts out of the study.

“If you will excuse me, Mr. Gold, I will retire,” she said. “Bella, you should go to bed soon.”

“Of course, Sophie,” Belle said demurely. As soon as her companion was gone, Belle took a deep breath. “A baby!” she breathed, beaming at Mr. Gold. “And to think if it were not for Robin’s taking the silver we should never have known them!”

Gold shot her a wry look. “If you expect me to be  _ happy _ that Fitzooth stole from me…”

“Why would you be happy about that?” Belle said airily. “You did not, after all, gain a loyal servant and hard worker, or lose a little of your beastly reputation, or prove to me and to yourself that you were a far better man than you gave yourself credit for.”

Gold tried to glare at her, but he was a little too pleased with her compliments to be really menacing. “Cheeky,” he muttered.

“Incurably,” she agreed.

“Did they have names chosen? I forgot to ask Fitzooth.”

“I believe he is to be Roland.”

“Roland. A fine name. I suppose,” Gold said, eyeing her when she fought a yawn, “if I were to order you to bed you would defy me.”

Belle smiled and made a show of looking at the clock. “Heavens! Look at the time!” she exclaimed. “I believe I will follow your excellent  _ suggestion _ , Mr. Gold.” She paused to press a kiss to his cheek before leaving the library. “Pleasant dreams, sir.”

_ Pleasant dreams, indeed _ . Gold rolled his eyes and put out the lights in the library before heading to his own room. As he passed the Fitzooths’ chambers, he could hear the subdued squall of the newborn and smiled to himself. Perhaps something good had come of Robin’s thievery after all. Of course, he would be stretched on the rack before he ever admitted to Bella that she was right.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this pleasant little interlude because next time...yeah, shit starts to get real.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bella is confronted with her past.

Beatrice Potts shook her head fondly as Miss Bella whisked out of the kitchen with a breakfast tray for Marian. With her cheerful insistence on being useful and her apparent genuine enjoyment of tasks most fine ladies deemed beneath them, Miss Bella was an oddity, and no mistake, but she was a sweet child. What in the world she saw in Mr. Gold, Mrs. Potts could not understand.

Oh, the girl could blush and prevaricate and ignore Mr. Fitzooth’s hints all she liked, but Mrs. Potts could tell which way the wind was blowing there. Everyone in the house could tell that they were head over heels for each other, and while Mrs. Potts could not say much for Miss Bella’s taste, she knew there was no use voicing her disapproval. Sweet and helpful she might be, but she was also determined and headstrong, and would be more likely to dig her heels in and do something disgracefully forward if challenged, and Mrs. Potts had no intention of scolding her straight into the old lecher’s arms. If only Mr. Baeden were not married! He was a fine young man, and perhaps could have tempted the young lady away, but alas, he had a pretty wife to whom he had returned just this morning, and Mrs. Potts would have to look elsewhere for a distraction for Miss Bella.

The door that led to the laundry opened and Mrs. Potts clucked her tongue. “Your breakfast is already on its way to your rooms.”

“You always were efficient.”

The pot fell from her hands and to the floor with a clang and she spun around. He was older, his face somewhat gaunt and his hair sprinkled with silver, but she would know those blue eyes and that gleaming smile anywhere.

“Hello, Pottsie.”

“Master Cillian!” Mrs. Potts raised shaking hands to her face. “How are you - you - we heard you were...”

“Dead? Aye, I dare say you did.” He stepped further into the room and reached out to take one of her hands. “I’ve had a devil of a time of it, but I’ve survived.”

“And what of…” Mrs. Potts’s eyes slid past him and searched the door. “Is... _ she _ ...not with you?”

“No,” Master Cillian sighed heavily. “Poor Milah...we were taken captive by pirates and she...she did not survive.”

“Oh, my poor boy,” Mrs. Potts squeezed his hand. “How terrible for you.”

“It’s been a long, hard slog to get back to this beloved place,” Master Cillian said, casting a fond glance over the stone walls and cheerful leaping fire. “I can’t tell you how I missed you all. Tell me, my father...was it hard? Did he suffer?”

“He was very ill just at last,” Mrs. Potts said. She tugged on his hands a little and led him to a chair. “The doctor kept him comfortable, however, and he was always easy as long as…” Her voice trailed away and Master Cillian shot her a dark glance.

“As long as?”

“Heaven knows there’s no love lost between me and Mr. Gold,” Mrs. Potts said timidly, “but he was very good to Mr. Jones in those last days.”

“Well, of course he was,” Master Cillian snapped. “He wanted to be certain he could cut me out of all it - my house, my money, even my father’s affections.”

“Oh, no, Master Cillian,” Mrs. Potts said soothingly, handing him a cup of tea. “You could never be replaced - your father loved you to the last. But he thought you were gone; we all did!”

“I suppose he and the old crocodile spent a good month searching for me,” Master Cillian grumbled.

Mrs. Potts made a distressed noise and Master Cillian appeared to shake off his foul mood.

“Forgive me, Pottsie,” he said with a sad smile. “You’ve had plenty to endure, I’m sure, with Gold back in residence. I suppose he’s been up to his old tricks?”

Mrs. Potts nearly agreed, but she frowned, considering. Not once since Gold’s return had she heard a word of complaint about his behavior. Miss Bella doted on him, and even Mr. Fitzooth, who was as kind and jovial a man as ever lived, had nothing to say against him.

“I…”

“Unless he’s got wilier with age and is better at hiding his depravities.”

Mrs. Potts nodded, though she felt far from certain, and Master Cillian seemed satisfied.

“Well, Pottsie, if you’d indulge me a little - don’t let him know I’m here. He might do something drastic, and I would like to have everything in order before I confront him.”

“Oh...certainly, Master Cillian.” Mrs. Potts considered how she could best avoid Mr. Gold today, but she had not got beyond pretending that she had errands to run in the town when she heard a quick step in the hall.

“Mrs. Potts, do we have more…?” Miss Bella hurried into the kitchen and froze. Her eyes were fixed on Master Cillian and her mouth hung open.

“Miss Bella? Are you well?”

“I...yes...Marian...she would like more eggs.”

“The lamb is certainly regaining her appetite,” Mrs. Potts said fondly. “I’ll serve some up.”

“Th-thank you.”

“Master Cillian, this is Miss Bella French. She’s Mr. Gold’s ward.”

“Charmed.”

“Here you are, Miss Bella.” Mrs Potts held the plate of eggs for Miss Bella to take, but she did not seem to hear her. She and Master Cillian were staring at each other, she with wide eyes and he with a small smile. With a little thrill Mrs. Potts wondered if perhaps her old master’s handsome son would be able to drive Mr. Gold from the girl’s head, and she bustled toward the door. “I need to check on Marian and the babe, so I will take these. You two go on and get acquainted.”

She smiled to herself as she hurried away.

* * *

“Hook,” Belle breathed when Mrs. Potts was gone.

“Miss Desrosiers,” the man drawled, his eyes traveling over her. “Forgive me, that is no longer your name, is it?”

“What are you doing here?” Belle asked. “What can you possibly want from me?”

“From you?” Jones scoffed. “Once you left my ship I didn’t care whether you lived or died. I’m not here for you, luv.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Did you not hear Mrs. Potts? This is  _ my _ house,  _ Miss French _ .”

“It isn’t. It belongs to Mr. Gold.”

“Yes, yes, he convinced my father to leave it all to him because I was believed dead, but I am, as you can see,  _ not _ . No thanks to the old crocodile.”

Belle shook her head. “You - you’ve been alive all this time? Why come back now?”

Jones shrugged and pulled a flask from inside his coat, tipping a generous portion of rum into his tea. “The old man is gone, and all of this is supposed to be mine. I’ll be damned if I see that old imp profit from my apparent death. He thought he could take my riches and live like a king, but I’ll take it all back.”

“There is more to inheriting an estate than becoming rich, Hook,” Belle snapped. “There are tenants to care for, and harvests to oversee, and...and Mr. Gold has been doing all of this while you’ve been off...what? Playing pirate?”

Jones sneered at her and rose, slowly drawing a dagger from a sheath at his belt. He gently placed the tip under her chin and grinned. “There’s precious little playing in the life of a pirate, luv,” he whispered. “Dirt and mess and blood and guts. I quite look forward to living the life of a landed gentleman.”

“You could have come back at any time,” Belle said, raising her chin. “Why come back now?”

Jones shrugged. “What would have been the use of that? To come back to grovel and simper and hope that my father was softened enough to change the will back to favor me? No, this is far preferable. I need only whisper in a few ears and Gold will be run back out of town. The magistrate - I dare say you’ve met Nott - is a particular friend of mine; it shouldn’t be difficult to convince everyone in the area that Gold intimidated my father into changing his will and, essentially, stole my inheritance from me.”

“You are a  _ pirate _ ,” Belle said scathingly. “Piracy is a crime punishable by death, and if Mr. Nott is determined to look the other way, there are other magistrates. Higher courts. Why on earth would any court grant a criminal property and freedom?”

“Mmm. Unfortunately you do have a point there, and as we are not actually at sea, I can’t silence you as I would wish.” He tapped the dagger under her chin once more to emphasize his point before sliding it back into its sheath. “Pottsie would forgive me much, but not that. I suppose I shall simply have to buy your silence with my own.”

Belle’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean?”

Jones laughed. “You are a Frenchwoman on the run from some very nasty characters indeed. When you were safely on British soil and I had returned to France, who do you think sought me out? D’Arque was very upset to find you’d disappeared on him.”

Her head swimming, Belle sat heavily on a chair. “You told him…”

“‘Course not, luv! Why should I care, after all? The reward he offered was nothing compared to your father’s fee, and even now I’d let you carry on if you weren’t in the way of my getting what’s mine.”

“What is it exactly you’re proposing?”

“Non-interference. You continue on your way and I’ll continue on mine. I’ll even let you live here with me once the crocodile is gone, and then you’ll have your ill-gotten fortune and can do whatever the hell you like. Stay out of my way, and no ever has to know who you really are.”

Belle took a deep breath, twisting her hands together as Jones finished his tea and snagged a bun from the stove.

“I’ll take your silence to mean you agree. ‘Til we meet again, Miss French.” He smiled and ducked out the door.

Belle sat in the kitchen until she heard Mrs. Potts’ heavy footsteps approaching. Leaping to her feet, she ran out of the laundry room door and into the garden, grateful that Hook -  _ Jones _ \- had apparently left the grounds. She felt dizzy and tears began to course down her cheeks as she paced along the garden wall. Sounds and colors swirled around her and she reached the corner farthest from the house, sinking down to the ground and wrapping her arms about her knees.

_"A _word will sa_ ve her, cherie. A kiss could seal all.”_

_ Belle shivered and pressed her back to the cold stone wall, as far from his leering gaze and foul breath as she could get. For days she had considered, had weighed the costs, and had almost nearly made up her mind to agree to his horrible trade. What value could her virtue hold that could compare to her mother’s life, after all? But now, faced with the reality of him, the words stuck in her throat. She tried to give them voice, but they were thick and heavy and would not move past her tongue. _

_ “Sir?” An underling put his head in the door. “We have her.” _

_ “Do you indeed?” D’Arque smiled, a wretched, foul grimace. “Well, ma belle, it appears your... _ **_services_ ** _...will no longer be required.” _

_ “Maman...” Belle whimpered. _

_ The door was flung open and Colette Desrosiers was shoved through, falling to her knees. Belle cried out and ran to her, flinging her arms around her mother. _

_ “Enjoy your mother’s company while you can,” D’Arque said carelessly. “She dies at first light, and so do you...unless you would like to make the deal for your own life that you could not make for hers.” _

_ With a laugh he left the room, locking the door firmly behind him. _

_ “Maman, I’m so sorry,” Belle sobbed. _

_ “No,” Colette whispered, clinging to her. “ _ **_I_ ** _ am sorry for leaving you here so long - it took us much too long to find you, darling, forgive me!” _

_ “You were searching for me?” Belle pulled back. “Maman, how could you! You were meant to be safe, to be hidden!” _

_ “And leave you here to be tormented and killed - or perhaps worse? I would far rather go to my death,” Colette said sternly. “Now listen very carefully, Isabelle. A guard will be here in a moment, and he will say that he is transferring you to Monsieur D’Arque’s private chambers, as you have agreed to his proposal to save your life.” _

_ “I...but Maman…” _

_ “He will take you out of the prison and to a secure location, and your father will meet you there.” _

_ “My father! Papa is here?” _

_ “I wrote him the instant you went missing, but he was already on his way here to fetch us. He will meet you and take you back to England, where you will be safe.” _

_ “But then you will join us?” _

_ After a pause, Colette said slowly, “My escape will take a little longer to effect. I plan to offer him information, and that should stay the execution for a little while, but...as soon as I can, I will come for you.” _

_ Belle nodded, standing hastily at the sound of voices outside the door. The guard claimed her, and all went as Colette had said, though her rescuer was forced to be rather creative with a few inconveniently curious guards. This particular man appeared to be highly respected, though, and they passed mostly unnoticed through the gaol and courtyard, and then she was in a carriage. _

_ “Thank you,” Belle breathed. “Have you done this before?” _

_ “Many times,” he said grimly, his eyes turbulent. “Sometimes I’ve thought they suspected me, but I’m never discovered.” _

_ “Will you go for my mother, when the time comes?” _

_ “Certainly.” _

_ He said nothing else for the remainder of the journey, and when she was once again wrapped in her father’s arms, Belle felt safe again. All was in readiness for their escape, but the next day Belle discovered, as they placed their trunks on the carriage, that her mother’s things were not among them. _

_ “Should we not at least take some of Maman’s gowns?” she asked. “She will need them when she joins us in England.” _

_ Her father’s face went pale, but before he could reply, the sound of hoofbeats cut him off, and the guard from the day before rode into view. “Sir Morris! We have been compromised!” _

_ “In the coach, Bella,” Papa said hoarsely. “Quickly, no time to lose.” _

_ “What does he mean? What has happened?” _

_ Papa leapt into the coach beside her and they set off at a terrifying pace. “D’Arque has discovered your disappearance, and he has spies everywhere. This place is hidden and secret, but he will find it.” _

_ “But...Maman? What will happen to her?” _

_ Papa was silent, and Belle felt her heart begin to race. _

_ “Papa!” _

_ “Your mother...your mother was executed this morning, Bella.” _

_ “No, she...she said she would offer information...that D’Arque would keep her a little while longer…” _

_ “D’Arque never cared for information, my dear. He cares for blood and violence and terror.” _

_ “But then why did she…” Belle took a shuddering breath. “She  _ **_lied_ ** _ to me! She lied to make me leave her there!” _

_ “To save you, Bella. To send you to safety.” _

_ “And you! You knew her plan, you knew she was going to die, and you  _ **_let her_ ** _!” _

_ “Bella, my darling…” _

_ “Don’t! Don’t speak to me...don’t look at me! I hate you!” _

_ “Bella…” _

_ She reached out and slapped his face with all the strength she could muster in the confined space. Tears coursed down her cheeks, and if she were a little braver she would have flung open the carriage door and leapt out, but she knew, in her heart of hearts, that she could not face D’Arque and his men again. _

_ “I will never forgive you for this,” she whispered. _

_ Sir Morris nodded, tears glistening in his eyes. He looked out the carriage window and sighed. “Neither will I, daughter,” he said quietly. “Neither will I." _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Belle...but at least now everyone knows why she thinks of herself as Belle and everyone else calls her Bella.
> 
> Since I'm not sure Belle will ever share her whole story within the story, here it is: Colette Desrosiers was a noblewoman who met Sir Morris French on one of his admittedly ill-advised trips to Europe. An avid scholar, he traveled the continent almost constantly before the troubles, and couldn't quite bring himself to give it up even when such travel became ill-advised. He was married, but it was a marriage of convenience that left them both free to pursue their own interests. I doubt she would have thought very highly of Sir Morris actually having an affair, but she died of a fever without finding out. (I never said he was perfect.) Belle was born barely a year before Ellen's death, and as neither Sir Morris nor Lady French ever went out much, many just assumed that she was Lady French's daughter and that she'd been sent to school abroad. A questionable decision, but Sir Morris had always been a little odd.
> 
> A few years after Ellen died, Sir Morris tried to convince Colette to come to England, but she refused. She knew what would happen if she went: any suspicions about Belle's legitimacy would be confirmed, and the respectability of the whole family would be sunk. Sir Morris lived half in France and half in England, bringing Belle home with him for summer holidays, where she often met and played with her cousin Greg Garnet. She met William Jones a few times, but never knew his son or visited Blackhall. When the troubles started, Belle was fourteen, and as nobles she and Colette were possible "suspects". They kept their heads down as much as possible, but as matters grew worse, D'Arque rose to power in their little town. He'd always hated Colette and her family, and he ordered them arrested and executed. They fled and hid, but Belle was a little too careless one day and was captured and taken to the prison for questioning. She was fifteen at the time. You know what happened after that.
> 
> Since Belle is twenty, this story began in 1799 which is twelve years before the Regency period actually began - technically Georgian.
> 
> I sure hope all of that made sense.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle tries to tell Gold the truth, but she gets a little distracted. And then things get...messy.

“Bella? Sweetheart, you need to come inside.” Belle started when Gold grasped her arm. She was not asleep, but she had not heard him call her name. She looked up at him, blinking owlishly. “You missed dinner, and Miss Hammond was beginning to worry.

“I’m sorry,” Belle whispered. She rose to her feet, trembling, and would have sunk back down to the ground if he had not slipped one arm around her waist.

“Are you alright?” he asked as they made slow progress across the garden. “Did you have another nightmare?”

He was being so kind and attentive, and Belle wanted to weep. She was not worth his kindness: she was an impostor and a coward, hiding behind a false name so that she might not have to face the wretched reality of her life. If she could, she would pull away from him and walk alone, across the garden and through the hall, out of the doors and out of his life. Tears blurred her vision as she contemplated whether she ought to tell him about Jones or about herself first, and which would make him hate her most.

They had been walking a rather long time, and Belle realized he had brought her to the library and was helping her to recline on the sofa. He poured a finger of whisky into a tumbler and pressed into her hand; she took a small sip and smiled weakly when the line of his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.

“Are you hungry? I can have Robin bring you something from the kitchen.”

Belle shook her head, the mere thought of food making her stomach churn.

“Why were you in the garden? What happened to upset you?” When she was silent, he sank carefully before her, his injured leg held out to the side, and grasped her hands. “Bella, if you need something…”

“Stop...stop being kind to me,” Belle whimpered, pulling her hands from his grasp. “I don’t deserve it.”

“Don’t deserve it? What are you talking about?”

“If you knew me truly, you would not...I am a coward and a villain, and you should not…”

“Enough,” Gold said. He rose from his position and sat beside her. “I know cowardice when I see it, and you are no coward. If you are in some sort of trouble, tell me and I will protect you.”

“Protect me,” Belle murmured. “Why would you do that? Why do you care about me?”

* * *

“I…” Gold felt his face flush and he leaned a little farther away from her. “I am your guardian, dearie. Isn’t that what guardians are meant to do?”

“My guardian. I always forget. I keep thinking of you as one of my dearest friends.”

A little thrill of warmth rushed through him and he fought a smile. “You need more friends, dearie, if you consider a sour cripple twice your age a friend.”

“Stop that,” Belle said, reaching out to take his hand. “You have been more than kind to me and to Sophie, and you are a far better man than you think you are.”

She was much too close, but after he’d found her still and pale against the garden wall, chill to the touch despite the warmth of the day, he could not quite bring himself to move away. He hated to see her in pain, so he allowed her to hold fast to his hand and take whatever comfort she could from his presence.

“I told you once that you were not who I thought you were, and that I was glad,” Bella said after a moment’s silence. “But I am not who you think I am either, and I know you won’t be pleased when I tell you all.”

“Bella, tell me what is troubling you.”

“In a moment,” she sighed. “I only want to sit here with you a little while longer before I make you utterly despise me.”

He scoffed. “Despise you? That is ridiculous.”

Bella looked up, her eyes wide. “Is it? Why?”

Had she somehow moved closer? He could feel her breath on his chin. “Because...Well, I…You’re…”

She captured her bottom lip between her teeth and his breath hitched. Her eyes flickered over his face, a myriad of emotions flashing in her expression before she seemed to come to a decision. Clutching his hand as if it were a lifeline, she stretched forward and up and captured his lips with hers.

He grunted in surprise and would have pulled back, but her other hand had gripped his shoulder and kept him in place, and soon enough he gave in, sliding one arm around her waist and pulling her closer, thrilling at the little gasp she gave against his lips. He took advantage of her distraction and slanted his mouth more securely over hers, and she dropped his hand in favor of plunging her fingers into his hair, tugging lightly.

If he was going to hell, he would at least enjoy the journey, he decided. Wrapping both arms around her waist, he pulled until she was seated across his knees, and she slipped her other hand around his shoulders, letting out a delicious little whimper when he nipped at her bottom lip. Spreading his hands over her back, he allowed one to travel up to the nape of her neck, smiling when she shivered at his touch. He pulled back slightly and relinquished her mouth in favor of her jaw, trailing kisses across and down to her throat. Her breath hitched and her fingers tightened in his hair, and he scraped his teeth over her pulse point.

Gold realized she was whispering something under her breath, and he paused, hoping to hear sweet words or an affirmation of affection.

“I’m sorry,” she was whispering. “I’m so sorry, please, just this once…” Before he could ask her what she meant, a dreadfully familiar voice behind him drawled,

“My, my. Compromising your ward, Gold? That  _ is _ nefarious.”

Gold wrenched himself away from Bella’s throat and clutched her a little more tightly to him. “Jones?” he rasped. Bella whimpered and pressed against him, and he let her go, allowed her to scurry away from him and huddle against the back of the sofa.

“You look surprised to see me. I must say, Miss Desrosiers, I didn’t expect you to keep your word. You seem the irritatingly honorable sort.”

“What...who…” Gold felt dizzy, struggling to understand. Who was Miss Desrosiers? What word had she given to Jones?  _ What the devil was Jones doing here? _

“Had I known you planned to seduce him to get him to take your side, I could have warned you not to bother,” Jones was saying. “That old crocodile’s heart is hard as flint. You should have seen how miserable he made his own wife.”

Gold turned to stare at Bella, who was now standing, though she leaned on the back of the sofa for support. “I was not...I was going to tell him.”

“Tell me? Tell me what?” Gold felt his blood run ice cold. “You...you know Jones?”

“I…”

“It was I who brought her from France to England,” Jones said with a smile. “We’re old friends.”

“You know Jones,” Gold said, his voice thin and strained. “He brought you here.”

“No,” Bella said weakly, “no, that’s not…”

Distantly Gold heard Jones chuckling, but he would deal with  _ that _ particular maggot in a moment. For now, all he could hear and see was Bella, and all he could feel was betrayal.

“He sent you. What was your mission? To marry me and then have me die in a tragic accident, leaving all my fortune to you?”

“No!” Her voice gained strength.

“Or was he merely to catch us like this, bringing fresh truth to those rumors I told you about?” Gold felt his face flaming as anger flared in his breast. “You were very clever, dearie. I nearly believed you cared for me.”

“Stop it, Roderick!” She crossed in front of the sofa and reached for his hands. “I was going to tell you.” 

“Shut up,” Gold growled. 

“There is so much you don’t know,” Bella persisted, “but I knew once I told you, you would hate me and…”

“Shut the hell up!”

Bella stepped back, her eyes glistening with tears. “Why won’t you listen to me?”

“Why should I? Everything I know about you is a lie.”

“That isn’t true!”

“What is your name?”

“W-what?” She paled and her lips trembled. “I…”

“ _ What is your name? _ ”

“Roderick…”

“ _ Mr. Gold _ . You say that you have been truthful with me, so prove it. Is your name Bella French? Are you Sir Morris’s daughter and heir?”

She was silent, her eyes pleading with him, but he waited. The ticking of the clock seemed monstrous, and Gold could hear Jones fiddling with something behind him.

_ In time _ , he thought.

“No,” his ward said at last, a few tears spilling over and down her cheeks. “My name is Isabelle Desrosiers. Sir Morris was my father, but I was born out of wedlock. I have no legal claim to his name or fortune.”

“Well, there we are,” Gold said, smiling coldly. “You were quite right, before. You are  _ not _ who I thought you were.”

“Gold,” she whispered, clutching her hands together as if to keep herself from reaching for him.

“A moment, dearie.” He strode to the door and swung it open. “Fitzooth!” Turning to Jones, he said, “You, I will deal with shortly.” Jones shrugged and inspected the spines of the books on the shelves.

When Fitzooth appeared, he took one look at Bella -  _ Isabelle _ \- and rushed to her side. “Bella! What…”

“Take her to room and have Dove make sure she stays there,” Gold said coldly.

“What? Sir!” Robin slid an arm around Isabelle’s shoulders and stared at Gold as if he’d gone mad. “What the blue blazes is happening here?”

“Perhaps Miss Desrosiers would like to tell you herself.” Gold waved a hand carelessly. “I’ve more pressing matters to attend to now, but I will deal with her later.”

“Miss...who…”

“ _ Go _ , Fitzooth. And don’t tarry too long. I’ll have need of you in a moment.”

With another confused glance first at him and then Isabelle, who nodded dismally, Fitzooth left the room with his charge, and Gold took a deep breath. He turned to Jones, who was eying him with undisguised amusement.

“Quite a show, Gold,” he said. “Too bad this old heap doesn’t have dungeons, or you could have tossed her in and thrown away the key.”

“Miss Desrosiers is no longer your concern.” Gold shut the library door and turned to face his old nemesis. “I’m both amazed and disappointed that you’ve survived this long, Jones. What could you possibly mean by coming here after all these years?”

“Well, I should have thought that obvious.” Jones sat in one of them armchairs and crossed his legs. “I want my house back. And my money. The girl you can keep, if you’re so inclined.”

Gold shook his head slowly. “You gave up your claim to Blackhall when you stole from your father, Jones, and you gave up your claim to gentility when you ran away and took up piracy - at least, I assume that is what happened.” Jones bowed in acknowledgement. “I have no reason to step down for you.”

“Nevertheless, you will, willingly or not,” Jones said. “I still have friends here, you know, and you’re still a cowardly, crippled upstart. More people than not will be delighted to see the back of you, and I will be hailed as a hero for removing the beast from the village once and for all.”

Gold gripped his cane tightly. “You will have Blackhall over my dead body,” he growled.

“Oh.” Jones leaned forward and grinned. “I was so  _ hoping _ you would say that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently it is Super Angst Week in my WIPs, folks.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hook makes his intentions clear, Belle is not who everyone thinks she is, and Robin gives his master a stern talking to.

“What is going on, Bella?” Robin whispered. He held her arm in a loose grip, propelling her gently down the hallway.

Belle shook her head. “You ought not to call me that, Robin. I’m an imposter, and I’ve...I’ve ruined everything.”

“Nonsense.” Robin turned down a corridor and Belle stopped, resisting his attempts to pull her along.

“Robin, this is not the way to my room,” she said.

“I know that,” he said tightly. “If you think I'm going to lock you up like an animal because Mr. Gold is angry with you, you don’t know me at all.”

Belle blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You released me when you had no reason to trust me,” Robin pointed out, and then paused. “Of course, I  _ did _ immediately steal all I could carry, so I suppose that might not have been the best decision…”

“Robin…”

“Regardless, I  _ do _ know you. No matter your true name or station, you are a kind, compassionate, generous young lady, and I will not have you treated so by a man who is meant to be your protector.”

“He is not my protector,” Belle said sadly. Robin took advantage of her distraction to tug her along the corridor again.

“Are you not Sir Morris’s daughter, then?”

“I am, but not of Lady French. I have no claim to my father’s name or fortune.”

“What does that matter? Mr. Gold is guardian of both your person and fortune. Even if there's no fortune,  _ you _ are still entitled to his protection.”

Belle shook her head, tears trickling down her cheeks. “He believes I’ve betrayed him.”

“Then the greater fool he,” Robin snorted. They had now reached the kitchens, and Robin ushered her inside. “Go,” he said. “I’ve a friend in the village - ask for John at the blacksmith, and he and his wife will put you up. I’ll come to you as soon as I can.”

Belle hesitated and almost refused, but a hint of her accustomed independence rose up inside her breast and she took a deep breath. “Alright,” she said, proud that her voice sounded a little stronger and surer, more like her usual self. “You’d best hurry - he’s in a frightful temper.”

Robin nodded and squeezed her hand once, and then he was off. Belle looked about the kitchen and took another breath, took her cloak from its hook, and slipped out the garden door.

* * *

“You will have Blackhall over my dead body.”

“Oh, I was so  _ hoping  _ you would say that.”

Gold blinked, then leaned back in his chair. “Really, dearie? A duel? Is that your best option?” He smiled when Jones frowned. “Why not contest the will?”

“I’m a pirate, not an imbecile,” Jones snapped. “You’ll have sewn everything up so tightly I’d have no chance at court.”

“Your chosen profession has dimmed what little intelligence you had,” Gold replied. “A pirate may board a ship, kill the captain, subdue the crew, and proclaim everything his rightful property, but you’ll find that things are not quite so straightforward here. Even if you did manage to kill me in a duel, you could not simply take possession of Blackhall. There are laws involved, not to mention servants and tenants…”

“Most of whom remember me quite fondly,” Jones pointed out. “You’re still as much of a coward as ever, aren’t you? Though I suppose I can’t blame you...who would you name as a second, after all? Who would be willing to risk their necks for the likes of you?”

“I would, for one.”

Both men started and turned to look at Robin, who was standing just inside the library and scowling at Jones. The pirate rose to his feet with a smile and held out his one good hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met, sir. Cillian Jones, at your service.”

Robin crossed his arms and raised one eyebrow. “Robin Fitzooth. At  _ his _ .” He nodded toward Gold, who sat frozen in surprise.

“You seem a decent fellow, Mr. Fitzooth,” Jones said, allowing his hand to fall back to his side, “so I feel compelled to warn you that your loyalty is...well...misguided. Didn’t you see what he just did to a young woman in his care?”

“I did. I saw a man who had been tricked into submitting to his worst impulses,” Robin said. “I’ve also seen this man forgive a thief, and offer employment and shelter to those in need. If we were all judged only by our misdeeds, we would none of us deserve loyalty or friendship.” He made a show of looking about the library. “Mr. Gold has his second, Mr. Jones. Who will stand for  _ you _ ?”

Jones ground his teeth. “I have a man at the inn in town. This won’t end well for you, you know,” he added, striding to the door. “I know Gold well - he’ll find some way not to fight, and leave you to face his enemies for him. I hope you have your affairs in order.” He was nearly out the door when Gold called after him.

“Swords, Jones.”

Jones swiveled on his heels and stared at the older man, his eyes comically wide. “I beg your pardon?”

“You issue the challenge, I choose the weapon. Swords. Tomorrow at dawn.”

“You’ve gone daft in your old age,” Jones chuckled. “You think you can win a sword fight against a pirate?”

Gold raised his eyebrows. “What does that matter to you?”

Jones smirked. “I suppose it doesn’t. Until tomorrow, crocodile.” He strode from the room, and Gold waited until he was gone before rising from his chair and hurling the decanter into the fireplace.

“Between you and Bella, it’s a miracle we have any glassware left,” Robin said mildly.

“ _ Miss Desrosiers _ ,” Gold snapped. “Her name is Isabelle Desrosiers, not Bella French.”

“Ah, I wondered what she meant. That does clear up a few things.”

“Does it?” Gold stalked a bit closer, hating that his nose was on a level with Fitzooth’s chin. “Well, I’ll thank you to  _ clear up _ the glass, and not concern yourself with my personal affairs.”

“You can growl at me all you like,” Robin said, approaching the fireplace and picking up the largest shards from the coals, “but I hope you’ll give yourself some time to reflect before you talk to Bella. Cooler heads should always prevail.”

Gold stared at him in disbelief. “Did you ignore everything I just said?”

“I did.” Robin cradled the glass in his hand and held it out as if for Gold’s inspection. “Thankfully, relationships are not as easily shattered as glass, though they can be more difficult to repair.”

A headache began pounding between Gold’s eyes, and he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to ward it off. “Fitzooth, I warn you, get out and spare me your platitudes.”

He heard the other man finish whatever he was doing in the fireplace and then leave the room, the door closing with a soft click. With no one there to observe him, he collapsed back in his chair and stared morosely at the carpet, his thoughts awhirl. Jones returned, his ward a traitor, and the possible ruin of everything he’d worked for - he felt it all like a weight on his chest. 

But oh, Bella’s betrayal - nothing hurt quite as badly as that. For a few blissful moments he’d believed that she wanted him, felt even a fraction of what he felt for her, and he’d allowed himself to hope that falling in love with her might not be the disaster he knew it would be.

This would, of course, be the moment that he was forced to acknowledge his feelings for what they were: he was over head and ears in love with her, as if he were a boy experiencing his first infatuation. As if he had no more sense than to fall prey to the charms of a beautiful woman half his age, a woman who could crook her little finger and have any man she wanted at her feet. As if he had not learned, in fifty-five years of existence, that no one chose him unless they had no other choice.

He lost all sense of time as he sat there, hating himself and Isabelle and Jones and everyone and everything in Blackhall. A timid knock at the door roused him, and with a glance out the window he saw that the sun was beginning to set. 

“Enter,” he called.

Mrs. Potts poked her head around the door. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I wonder if you’ve seen Mr. Fitzooth about.”

“No,” Gold said shortly.

“Oh,” Mrs. Potts fidgeted a bit before apparently coming to a decision and walking all the way into the library. “Mrs. Fitzooth was asking after him, and…”

_ Mrs. Fitzooth _ . Gold’s blood ran cold as he thought of the young woman and the infant resting in the servants’ quarters. Somehow he had forgotten that Fitzooth was a man with a family, a wife and newborn son. What on earth had he been thinking, offering to participate in a duel when he had people who depended on him?

“I...I don’t know where he has gone, Mrs. Potts,” Gold said, pushing himself to his feet. “Excuse me, I...I have business in the village and…”

“If you see him -”

“I will pass along your message,” Gold interrupted, brushing past her.

“And Miss Bella -”

“Miss Bella is unwell and will be remaining in her room for the rest of the evening.”

Mrs. Potts frowned. “Are you certain, sir? I’ve just come from her room and she did not answer my knock.”

His head began to pound again. “I was with her moments ago; she is feeling unwell and I sent her away to rest. I must ask that you not disturb her anymore today.”

“Very well.” Mrs. Potts shook her head. “Poor thing. I’ll pass the message on to Miss Hammond, shall I?”

Gold nodded his assent and Mrs. Potts bustled away, leaving him with a new set of worries and questions. How much did Miss Hammond know about her charge? And more importantly, what on Earth was he to do with his duplicitous ward?

* * *

Belle hurried down the lane, hastily forming plans as she went. Mr. Gold would be furious to discover her gone, and she must be prepared. Sophie, unless she was very careful, would be in danger of discovery as well, and they must be ready to act. The village came into view, and Belle found the forge easily. A giant of a man stood just inside, stoking the fire in the furnace; he started when he saw her and then attempted to clean his large soot-blackened hands on his apron before approaching her.

“Good afternoon, miss,” he said. “May I be of some assistance?”

“I’ve come to see John,” Belle said. “Robin sent me. I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a scrape, and he said John would help."

“That I will, if I can,” John said. He waved one massive arm to beckon her nearer, and then led through a door to the back of the forge, and then through another to a small apartment beyond. “Eliza!” he called. “Robin has sent us a guest!” He turned back to Belle and smiled reassuringly. “What sort of trouble are you in, miss? Run away, have you?”

“Not exactly,” Belle sighed. “It is, I’m afraid, a  _ very _ long story.”

“Aren’t they all?” John chuckled as a tall woman with a square face and stern dark eyes had appeared at one of the doors; she appeared to take Belle’s measure with a single glance.

“She doesn’t look like one of Robin’s strays,” the woman said, stepping closer and inspecting Belle’s face. “The cloak alone would feed a family of five.”

“My name is Bella Fr…” Belle paused, shook her head, and took a deep breath. “Belle. Belle Desrosiers, and I’ve come from Blackhall.”

“Blackhall!” Eliza’s eyes grew wide and she shared a look with her husband. “You’re the young ward everyone has been gossiping about! But I thought you had a different name.”

“I did.”

Eliza studied her for a moment longer and then shook her head. “We all hoped Gold had mended his ways, but I suppose he hasn’t. Fancy turning out a young woman like you, dependent on him and all but helpless!”

“He did not turn me out,” Belle argued, “and if he had he would have had good reason.”

Eliza looked skeptical. “We’ll see about that,” she said. “Into the kitchen with you. Robin will be along soon enough, and then we’ll decide what to do next.”

Belle was fairly certain that there was only one path available to her, but she held her tongue and followed her hostess into the spotless room.

“Now, then, Belle,” Eliza said, setting a bowl of stew in front of her, “ a long story is best told over a good meal. Tell me as much as you can.”

Her mind whirling, Belle studied the table as she considered what she ought to reveal. Everything, she supposed. Keeping secrets had not exactly yielded good results.

“My name is Isabelle Desrosiers,” she said slowly, “and I am a traitor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a new chapter! I can't freaking believe it! I LOVE SUMMER VACATION.


End file.
